Full of Grace
by Pandorama
Summary: For me, it did have to do with faith, but not in a higher power. It was about having faith in Luka, in Joe, and even moreso, in myself.
1. Mercy

**Author's Note and Preemptive Mea Culpa:** I'm beginning the posting process of this with the guilty conscience of one who may not update as regularly as she'd like - I have a few chapters backlogged, but the next six months will be rather touch-and-go in the fanfiction department as I will be travelling quite a bit; the Internet access will be questionable at best; and I will be writing a thesis that may take more time than I've allotted. That said, I'm a little bit in love with this project and I'm not going to let it die some morose, pitiful, little death. That's best left to certain long-running medical dramas (yes, I went there). So essentially, I'm asking for leeway, here. I genuinely hope you all enjoy this, because it's been more work than any other piece of fiction I've written and a lot further from my comfort zone. I'm terribly grateful to Mrs. Eyre for betaing and to all the poor souls I bounced ideas off of when this was, as a friend calls it, just a plotbunny. Anyhow...on with the show, as it were.

* * *

**"Mercy"**

I didn't say it. Not even knowing that there may very easily never be another chance to tell him. Not because it's not true – because it wasn't enough. Isn't enough.

I could have loved him more. Could have loved him better. Could have somehow made it enough to keep me from going down the path I did. I could have never loved him in the first place and never would have seen that look in his eyes as I passed our son over to him. Like I'd torn his heart out, stomped on it, set it on fire, and pissed on the ashes.

Although, honestly, I probably did a whole lot worse than that.

I rifle through the CD case in the center console. Celine Dion. Jewel. Fucking Stevie Wonder. Sonofabitch. Not quite the escape I had in mind. And here it is, perfectly organized, a musical chronology of our life together. I jab at the radio. Twist it around until I find something good and loud, good and angry, good and distracting. There'll be plenty of time for soul-searching and wallowing over the next thirty days. Right now…

Right now, if I don't take my mind off it, I'll turn the damn car around and floor it back to the apartment and grovel until he takes me in his arms and makes it all better.

And then I'll be right back where I started the second things get hard.

I try to drown out the obnoxious voice in my head that's telling me I've learned my lesson, I won't mess it up again, of course not, Luka's home, he can protect me, why not just go back and never tell him what happened and just go forward. The voice sounds an awful lot like the one I hear in the morning when the alarm goes off and I'm trying to reason my way out of getting up. Being fired is usually motivation enough to counterbalance that one, but this voice is more persistent. Louder. My fingers are itching to pull the wheel into a U-turn, illegal as it may be. They need something better to do. Some way to shut the nagging little voice off before I lose the nerve.

It hits me like a ton of bricks and I'm pulling over at a gas station before my mind has registered the decision. I don't bother to wait for the change before pulling the cellophane off. I'd bet good money that I look like some strung-out junkie the way I'm getting off from the feeling of the paper between my fingers, hands shaking as I shove the change in my purse and realize once I've already got the fucking thing hanging out of my mouth that I haven't carried a lighter in about two years. A pack of matches is offered to me and I mutter my thanks.

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Jesus, it's like magic. Whoever said smoking was bad clearly never did it right. Because it seems like a really, really fantastic thing to me at the moment, and the last shred of sanity I have left.

I'm two deep in the pack by the time I hit the expressway. It dawns on me that I'm probably going to have to make a couple of phone calls at some point. Like to work, since I somehow don't see this being the equivalent of a couple days in Croatia. And Janet. Which I honestly really dread. I know there's this whole thing about sponsors not being judgmental, but it feels like there's a giant, neon "told you so" sign attached to that conversation.

At some point, I'm going to have to call Maggie, too.

That is one conversation I really don't want to have.

_Hey Mom. I know I've spent thirty-eight years lecturing you about being a responsible parent, but, as it turns out, I'm a raging drunk who put her toddler in danger. Guess we're more alike than I thought._

I need another cigarette. Badly.

It's amazing how easily it comes back to me. The rush of the nicotine, the calm of having something familiar to occupy me, the scent itself, rancid as it may be.

Sort of like drinking.

Fuck.

I'm already off to an amazing start with this sobriety thing. One addiction for another. And the sad thing is that I could really give a damn, because, right now, I _really_ want a drink, and if I have to eat the thing to keep my mind off of that, pass me a fork.

Deep breath, Abby.

I run through the steps in my head. Once. Twice. Ten times.

I've conquered step one. I'm painfully aware of just how powerless I am over alcohol and how completely unmanageable my life has become.

Step two. Came to believe a power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.

Ironic, because, really that was where it all went wrong. Depending completely on a higher power for sanity. Believing that I didn't have the capacity to handle it myself. Convincing myself that I didn't need to keep working at it, so long as I had Luka.

Because he meant so much. More to me than anyone ever had.

I don't think, looking back, that I've ever been in love with anyone except him. Not really. Not completely. And I know, as messed up as I am, that that's a big part of why I'm where I am.

Because I figured it would be enough.

The dial tone is screaming in my ear, then a couple of shrill rings before it goes to voicemail.

I hang up. There are things you just can't leave in a message.

* * *

The place has all the ambiance and charm of a supermarket restroom. Actually, scratch that. Supermarket restrooms tend not to come with waivers.

I sign on the dotted lines until my hand cramps up and then someone who seems to think she's a nurse but probably isn't escorts me all too cheerily to "my home for the next thirty days." No shit, that's really how it's described to me. I try not to swear too loudly when it becomes apparent, mostly from all the crap piled on the opposite side of the room that it's not just my home.

I have a roommate. And that just thrills the hell out of me.

I mean, who wouldn't want to enter into something that terrifies them completely and share all that nice vulnerability and soul-searching and shame with a complete stranger?

Something is muttered in the general realm of "this isn't a day spa" when I ask very politely if there are any single rooms. I don't bother to muffle the cursing this time and throw my bags on the twin cot that is apparently mine, knowing full well that I look like a five-year-old in a toy store who was just told she couldn't have the Barbie she wanted.

But hey, if I'm going to have all my personal amenities stripped away along with my dignity, why not enjoy it, right?

"We'll need to go through your things for contraband items, and then you can get some rest. We usually don't have intakes this late at night." The tone implies that it's not something that's particularly appreciated.

A half hour later, I'm short my wallet, cell phone, most of my makeup, my razor, all of my liquid toiletries – in case I've snuck vodka in, apparently, which seems counterintuitive since I came here voluntarily, but I'm not about to argue over it – a bottle each of ibuprofen and aspirin, all my shoelaces, my nail clippers, and the Compazine that Luka wrote a prescription for out of sheer pity. It takes me a good minute to hand over the scrap of paper with his slanted cursive. It's a funny thing - chickenscratch can be beautiful if you stare at it long enough.

I'm allowed to keep the antacids. Score one for me.

I almost offer up my undergarments in case they suspect I might braid them into a noose and hang myself, but I refrain lest I end up going forcibly commando for the next month. I briefly think of what exactly Luka would say to that and catch myself. The guilt rushes back and the five-year-old having a tantrum is gone. Back to Abby.

Abby, who is in rehab.

Abby, who is a drunk.

Abby, who did…_that_…for a lousy martini and someone to hold her.

Because Abby was just hoping that maybe she was just drunk enough that she could close her eyes and believe it was her husband.

I really don't like Abby. And I can't much blame anyone else who feels the same way.

The nurse-who-probably-isn't is still standing in the doorway, giving me the sort of look that implies she thinks I'm a couple of olives short of the martini that got me here. I swallow my pride and manage a half-assed smile. Her face softens, and I wonder all of a sudden if she has three grandkids and a cat and a bridge club and just forgets all this bullshit when she goes home at night. "Get some rest. The first day is always a long one."

I want my cell back. Now. My eyes dart to it without thinking, and up to hers with what I can only assume to be a desperately pitiful expression akin to Oliver Twist. "Please. Just for a minute. I need…I need…"

She nods and doesn't force me to finish, just hands it over. And holds up two fingers.

Two minutes.

I dial. _Pick up, Luka. _I know it's futile and beg silently all the same. _Please pick up. Please._

"Abby?"

_Don't lose it. Don't._ "L – Luka?"

"Yeah." His voice sounds like it's coming through a tin can. "I'm here."

"I thought –" The lump in my throat is the size of a tennis ball.

"Ice on the runway."

"Oh."

"You're…there?"

I nod. _Idiot. He can't see you._ "Yeah."

He stays silent. I hear fussing and sniff pathetically. Mumbles. "Joe wants the phone."

Rustling. "Mamamamamama."

Words are completely pointless now. I'm going to end up electrocuting myself in a minute from how wet the phone is. "Hi, baby."

"Mamama."

Rustling again. "I brought a picture for him. From the wedding."

The wedding. Not our wedding. "Oh."

"He…he won't give it back." I can almost hear the faltering grin on his face.

"Oh." Eloquence is my strong suit. "Look…I have to…I just…"

"Yeah."

"Luka?"

"Mmm?"

"I – I love you."

There's a brief pause and I'm not sure whether he's there or not. And then his voice cracks. "Yeah. Me too."

I don't say anything else until he tells me to get some rest and that he'll call tomorrow. I nod stupidly and wait for the dial tone.

It doesn't come as fast as I thought.

"I love you, Abby."


	2. Ask Me How I Am

**Author's Note:** I know that I'm probably going to get some questions on my depiction of rehab - more specifically, whether or not it's accurate. Let's go ahead and say that I did my homework on this one, so I'm going to ask for a little good-faith credit on this, and if you don't trust me (as in, you've been in rehab or are a clinical psychologist, because other than that I don't know how you'd be in a position to argue), feel free to PM me with concerns and I'll try to explain how I came to my various creative decisions. And, no, just to head it off at the pass, my "research" did not involve watching _G__irl, Interrupted_ or_ 28 Days_.

I won't be updating again before the holidays as I'll be globe-trotting without much wireless access (oh the horror!), so Happy Chanukkah, Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, and a Happy New Year, as well.

* * *

**"Ask Me How I Am"**

That first morning at Luka's…waking up in his bed, not knowing for a second or two where I was, realizing that the arm my head was resting on definitely didn't belong to me…it was disconcerting. It's always disconcerting to wake up in an unfamiliar place. But that, that was a sort of wonderment. Like, _did I really just do that? Wow._ Because as much as it felt wrong, it felt really damn right, too. And not just because I hadn't gotten laid in quite awhile, which I hadn't, but because I'd gotten laid by Luka fucking Kovac, and it had been tender and sweet and mindblowing and there had been something about the way he'd kissed me that night that stuck with me.

Waking up in another man's bed, with no idea as to how I'd gotten there and no recollection as to what I'd done, except that it had to be bad, really fucking bad, and feeling like I'd been hit in the head with a bat – I'd assumed that was the worst possible way to wake up.

Wrong.

Waking up in rehab, wondering why you're so awfully cold because your warm husband isn't there next to you, and who the hell knows when or if he will be again, confused as to why there's no little voice calling out for you to fix his breakfast, fluorescent light coming from overhead like a bad hangover, and the most idiotic excuse for a conversation you've ever heard echoing down the hallways – _that_ is the worst possible way to wake up. Ever.

I rub at the crusty gunk that's got my eyelashes glued to my cheeks – you know, the stuff you get when you just passed out on the hardwood floor after an all-night bender. Right about now, the hardwood sounds appealing.

"Kills your back, doesn't it?"

It's early and I somehow doubt anyone's started the coffee, so it takes a minute to register that the voice belongs to a body. Or more specifically, a roommate. I try for a half-assed smile, which is a stretch, at this point. "Yeah."

"You need an eggcrate. I've got an extra, if you want." Roommate smiles and slides off her bed. Christ. I have to crane my head up to look at her. Not that I mind. My neck's sort of accustomed to that.

She catches me and laughs. "Five-ten. And that's in bare feet. I'm Marla, by the way."

"Abby." This has to be a killer first impression – I know what I look like in the morning, and I give Luka a lot of credit for not pointing it out. Usually. A wave of loneliness goes through me and the desire to vomit has nothing to do with detox.

"First time?" She's inspecting me, like she already knows the answer.

I nod lamely.

"It's my third." She pulls a pack of gum from the recesses of a drawer and holds it out to me. "Nicorette. Don't tell."

"Thanks."

"The first week is shit. After that…it's sort of like summer camp for fuck-ups."

I'm either impressed or terrified, and I can't settle on one. A glance at my watch tells me that it's six-thirty. Joe would be waking up about now.

Don't cry, Abby. Don't.

Marla raises an eyebrow in my direction, and I realize I've been staring at the wall for quite a while. "Family?"

"Yeah."

She digs through her nightstand and produces a little packet of photos. "My kids."

I take the picture she's offered me. Two boys, maybe five and seven, and an older girl, all posed together, looking like the all-American family.

"My husband left after the second time. I see them on weekends, now."

God. The thought of Luka leaving…taking Joe…it scares the hell out of me, because it could happen, it really could. And the thing is, I wouldn't blame him. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's better for them, this way." She looks a little nostalgic. "You have any?"

"A son. Nineteen months." I hand over our wedding photo, the one with Joe.

"Oh, wow. He's beautiful." She winks as she hands it back. "Cute kid, too."

I can feel my cheeks go six shades of red. "Yeah."

"So…you just got married, then?" She eyes my hand for reassurance.

"In May."

"Shit. Is he…I mean…taking it okay?"

"It's complicated." Understatement of the year. A thoracotomy is complicated. This is something else altogether.

"I bet."

* * *

They give me this little card, with a bunch of questions on it, and I'm supposed to answer them in front of a bunch of people. My group. Marla was right – it's like camp, without s'mores or panty raids.

When I walk in, there's this feeling. Like someone warned them all about me. I guess they didn't have to, but still…it's creepy. They're all looking at me like they're wondering when that explosive I've got wired to me is going to go off.

"Welcome, Abby." A woman who I can only assume is our counselor – see, summer camp right there – gestures to the one of the mismatched armchairs that doesn't have a body currently occupying it.

I wonder if this chair is special, for the new kids.

"Why don't we go around and introduce ourselves?" The woman, whose nametag is obscured by a red polyester lapel, smiles calmly at the man sitting next to her, as if something deeply complex is understood by this that requires no explanation.

Great.

"I'm Lee."

I wait for the requisite "Hi, Lee," but it doesn't come.

Instead he looks down at his hands and shrugs. "I'm a paralegal, a father of two little girls, and a heroin user. I've been sober twenty-three days."

Red Lapel smiles encouragingly at Lee before turning to me. "We ask that everyone identifies themselves as something other than an addict. We're more than our addictions, right, Lee?"

Lee looks like he really wants to roll his eyes, and I think I know how he feels. I can see Marla eyeing me, the corners of her mouth twitching.

About half the room seems to have the same thoughts that Marla, Lee, and I apparently share. The other half is eating it up. We go around in a circle and I have to fight the urge to ask if I was supposed to bring something for show and tell.

The real kicker is that this would be a riot with some tequila. But hey, I'd settle for a cup of coffee and a cigarette at this point.

Red Lapel smiles sweetly and tells me it's my turn. I make a quick sweep of the room. I could go for the door, but I doubt seriously I'd make it past the nurses' station. The window looks promising, but on second thought, that would probably land me right in a psych ward. I think I'm sweating from every possible place on my body. I lick my lips.

"I'm Abby." Red Lapel nods, blinks, waits. Clearly, I'm going to have to do better than that. "I'm…an alcoholic." Red Lapel raises an eyebrow. Right. Shit. Identify myself outside my disease. Well, I'm sure as hell not mentioning what I do for a living. I briefly consider _and my husband is more attractive than your husband_ but that's probably not going to win me any friends and I don't exactly have the right to be bragging about him at this particular moment. Which leaves Joe. "And I have a son."

Red Lapel looks sufficiently placated, and I really need a smoke now. "Could I use the bathroom, please?"

I'm excused. No hall pass necessary. I can share the exciting highlights of my life story when I get back.

I go to lock the door and, oh look, no locks. Fantastic. I slide down and lean against the door, taking deep breaths. I'm seriously considering rolling up some toilet paper and rubbing bits of tile together to start a fire so I can smoke _something_.

I feel it coming, then, a second before my reflexes kick in, and it gives me time to ungracefully shove myself into a kneeling position over the porcelain god as it comes up, over and over, until there's nothing left but bile. I haven't thrown up that much since I was fifteen and got drunk as all hell for the first time and regurgitated everything but my spleen in someone's very nicely cultivated hydrangeas. Even morning sickness – and let me just say, that was no walk in the park – didn't come close.

And back then, Luka was there to hold back my hair.

It's the worst feeling in the world, vomiting without anyone there to hold your hair, wet a washcloth, even tap on the door to see if you've passed out or what. I think I have a whole new appreciation for Luka's patience with me back then, because I never even thanked him properly for all the times he had to sit on the bathroom floor while I moaned and groaned and went about rejecting whatever I'd eaten in the past week, and he never so much as complained. I swear, sitting on the extremely questionable bathroom floor, that the next time I talk to him, I'll thank him.

And I wonder, just for a second, if he'll ever be there to hold my hair back again.


	3. White Rabbit

**"White Rabbit"**

So I survive the First Day and the Alcoholic Inquest. Even clean up the bathroom floor after getting reacquainted with my breakfast. Gold star to me, right?

The second night is exponentially shittier than the first, because now it's really kicking in – the craving. I want a drink and I can't have it. Actually, I want Luka, and I can't have him, so I want a drink instead. Which means I'm seriously out of luck tonight.

They offer me something to help. A couple of things to help, including something to sleep. My body wants it; my head doesn't. My head wants to do this on my own, let me suffer the consequences of my own actions, because I sure as hell deserve it. The doctor on-call must make a commission on pharmaceuticals, because he seems pretty put out when I tell him I want to do this the good old-fashioned way and that thanks, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to figure out the symptoms if withdrawal turned nasty. And if delirium sets in or I fall into a coma, he's free to administer whatever he likes.

Call me masochistic, but how I feel physically is not a big concern.

It's the craving for not feeling that gets me.

It's driving me out of my mind that I can't talk to him. No phone calls for seventy-two hours after admit. Not even to my sponsor. Something about needing to wrap my mind around the program. Or maybe wrap my hands around my own neck.

I can almost feel him next to me if I try hard enough, one arm draped over me, totally unaware that he has this habit of groping me in his sleep. He's oblivious when he sleeps. A couple of times, he's woken me because his hand slips to a place it shouldn't – at least not when we're both dead asleep. It's endearing, really. In a slightly perverted sort of way, but it's okay because he's not even meaning to, and the whole thing is compounded by the fact that he's pretty damned adorable when he sleeps, alternating between muttering in Croatian and snoring with his mouth half open like a kid asleep in his biology class. Joe's like that, too, groping his teddy bear in his sleep, muttering in baby speak, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth like it's a difficult task to lie there unconsciously. Active sleepers, my boys.

You miss the strangest little things when you can't hold them.

I missed his smell while he was in Croatia. I went so long without washing the sheets after he left that it started to get a little unsanitary, so I just folded them and put them away in the closet. Unwashed, so that I could still bury my nose in them now and then and breathe in his scent. I can't even explain what it is, just that it's the most comforting thing in the world to be wrapped in his arms, breathing him in. He only smells that way for me. He told me that once. He stopped using the same soap after we broke it off the first time, for no real reason I guess, but when we got back together – when I was pregnant – all I wanted was that smell. The kind of soap bachelors buy in a six-pack at the supermarket, and he'd gone and tried something a little more high-end – that's what he said, at least, which meant he started buying two dollar soap instead of ninety-nine cents – and he bought it one day, at the supermarket, because he remembered I liked it. He got lucky that night. Really lucky.

I murmur his name softly into the darkness, just to hear it. I haven't said it all day. I need to hear it.

I need him.

* * *

"_Move over. You're taking all the blankets." Luka shoves me a little, trying to get comfortable on the cot. Damn, it's tiny. Not meant for tall people. Not meant for Luka._

"_Can't. It's rehab. You can't have blankets."_

"_Yes, I can. You can't have them, but I can. I didn't drink."_

_I pull at the blankets, but he won't give. They're all on his side now, and I'm cold. Cold as ice. I shiver. "You did. You always drink, all around me. See there? The beer bottles?" I point to the bottles, and sure enough, they're lined up neatly, all around us, on the nightstand, the dresser, the windowsills._

"_You drank those." He gets out of bed, taking the blankets with him, and it's weird, he's in a suit and a labcoat. "You were bad."_

"_I was not!"_

"_Yesss." He picks up one of the bottles and looks inside. "Look, there he is."_

"_What is?"_

_He taps at the side of it, and it sounds too loud. Not like a bottle. "In there. Joe." He smiles. "Hi Joe."_

"_We have to get him out!" I try to get up, but my legs won't go where I tell them, and the floor is sliding around under me._

"_Can't."_

"_We have to!" I try to stand up again, and fall into a bunch of bottles, spilling them over._

"_See? He's not safe out there."_

"_He's my baby! He needs me!"_

_Luka shakes his head. "No. Can't." He looks at the bottle again, and tips it back into his mouth. "See? All gone. Can't hurt him."_

"_No! Give him back!"_

"_All gone, Abby."_

I wake up in a cold sweat. _Shit._ It takes a few solid minutes of staring at the ceiling to convince myself that it was just a dream. A nightmare. I haven't had one in awhile. I had a fair few when Joe was an infant, especially in the NICU. And after Ames. Strangely enough, I didn't have any while Luka was away – just confusion in the morning. But that one…a shiver goes up my spine like a little burst of electricity, just thinking about it again. I mean, the whole premise is absurd, Joe in a beer bottle, but the rest…isn't. It's real. And Luka saying those things…I can still hear them, echoing around in my head. God, I want a drink.

I squint at my watch. Six-fifteen. We won't get a smoke break until ten – being a lowly newcomer, I get to go out with the herd of them and suck down a couple of cigarettes behind the building, trying not to end up with hypothermia. Rumor has it that if I behave, I'll get to go out and smoke anytime we're not "in groups," which actually is pretty rare. So not much to strive for, but still. I wonder if there's a restriction on smoking out back in my sweats before breakfast. Or maybe at three in the morning. Christ, even caffeine, the last little shred of sanity I'm clinging to at the moment, is an hour away. And Luka's voice is still fresh in my ears. _You were bad. All gone. Can't hurt him._

I could have. Easily.

The orderly unlocks the bathroom for me and gives me the rundown, same as yesterday. Ten minutes. No razors without observation for my first week. Would I like someone to chaperone me? No, I'm all set. Not like I have anyone to shave for. She dutifully hands me a baggie of personal toiletries, all of which have been checked for drug paraphernalia, in case I decide to snort my conditioner, and nods towards the door. All mine.

After a few minutes, all the water on my face just sort of blends together.

* * *

"Abby L." It's a question and an announcement all wrapped up in one, shattering the first break from reality I've had since I got here. I hadn't really remembered how long it had been since I actually read a book. I grumble and stand. This one's younger, blonde, probably in her twenties. A baby. She smiles like she's not sure. "You're Abby L.?"

"Last time I checked."

"You have a session." She waits for me, clearly expecting me to follow. Okay, then. I humor her and meander down a hallway I haven't seen yet. "Dr. Young's just great. You'll like her." She prattles on, and I'm zoning out. Dr. Young. No cliché or anything, there. Right. According the intake packet they gave me, the Great and Powerful Dr. Young is to be my therapist. I wonder if the title is real, or just a formality. The blonde stops at the door. "I'm Alice, by the way."

Of course she is. And she's got a couple of magic pills and a white rabbit behind the nurses' station.

I nod politely instead and enter the door she's gestured to. Time to meet the maker, or something like that.

"Abby Lockhart."

My maker, apparently, is Katherine Hepburn's baby sister. Good god.

I slink my sweatpant-clad, make-up-less self to the sofa and try to blend into the cushions. You'd think she'd dress down to boost my self-esteem a little.

Katherine's clone smiles at me. "I'm Celia Young. You can call me Celia, Dr. Young, or anything else you'd like. I promise you that any name you can think of, I've been called worse."

I personally think she's underestimating my creativity, but whatever. Time and place.

"So…I have your file in front of me, but I prefer to hear the whole story from the source. More interesting that way." Another fucking perfect smile. She leans back a little in her chair, and I take a mental note that her Pradas have been abandoned under her desk. "Tell me about yourself."

"Just the highlights, or the whole sordid thing?" Because that could definitely eat up the full thirty days.

"Whatever you feel is important." She crosses her arms over her chest, emphasizing that if she really is a Hepburn, she's been taking breast enhancement pills. Bitch. "Look. We're going to have three one-hour sessions a week for four weeks. That's twelve hours. Not a lot of time."

Smooth move, Abby. Open on a sarcastic note and piss off the therapist before you've even started.

"If you want to make any headway in the time we have, you have to be the proactive one. I'm not very good at reading people's minds, and if I was, I'd have a Lifetime special and a daytime talk show. So…it's your choice as to how we deal with our time. I just want to put that out there up front."

"No…yeah, I mean, I…agree." I've been adequately shamed. She's quick. Because I am here to make a change. Put it all behind me, or at least in the archives of history. Work the steps, do the time, go to the meetings, sort my shit out.

"You're committed to this, yes?"

Committed. Cute. "Yeah, I am."

"Good. I'm glad to hear that." She rifles through the folder in front of her and tosses it aside. No big deal. Just my file. I get the impression it's supposed to be symbolic. "Why don't we start with you telling me why you're here."

"Why…I'm here? In rehab?"

"Yes. Why did you make the decision to come here? Why now?"

"I…" I'm about to say the simple thing – that it's for Luka and Joe – but that's not it. Not all of it. "I'm tired of screwing up my life. And of running away from my problems. I decided…" I shrug and inspect my hands, hoping there's a cheat sheet there. No such luck. "I decided I wanted to deal with them. Needed to."

She nods, urging me on. I guess this isn't one of those back-and-forth times.

"I have a husband and a kid and for the first time, things were okay. Good. And…I don't want to lose that."

"For them, or for you?"

"For…all of us. I know it can't just be for them. It's not. It's for me, too."

"Well, I think that's a noble place to start."

Noble, my ass. I'm not really in the mood for affirmations just now.

"Beyond that, though. What I'm hoping we can accomplish is to at least figure out the root of the problem, Abby." She clears her throat. I wonder how many times she's found the root and wished she hadn't gone looking. "So what I'd like is for you to tell me anything you think is important to you being here, right now. To who you are. And hopefully, that will help me get to know you better, and how I might be able to help you."

She's dead serious, saying this shit right out of a clinical textbook, but there's this weird genuine vibe to it that makes me not want to laugh in her face and actually try to work with her. Not that I've got a lot of options. No door number two.

So I tell her, this complete stranger. About Maggie and Eric and growing up with the disease. About how afraid I was, and still am, that Joe would be bipolar, and that I'd stopped telling Luka how much it scared me after he was born. And about falling in love with Richard and him being my ticket away from Maggie and hating myself to the point where drinking was the solution, until it stopped numbing it anymore. About getting sober and un-sober and sober again and un-sober again and how I finally had a reason to stop messing up my life because it was hurting other people, people I cared about, people I was afraid to lose. I tell her a lot about Luka and Joe. Most of it comes back to them, somewhere in the middle of a story about Eric or Maggie or Richard, it always comes back to them somehow. And I don't think that's really a bad thing, because that's why I'm here. Not for them. For me, because I want to hold onto that. I tell her that and she smiles, but this one is sincere.

By the time our hour has run over, I realize I've told her a couple of things, not even realizing it, that I've never even told Luka. I don't know how it happened, I was just on a roll. It just started out with facts – facts are easy, no emotion – and then I started talking and stopped thinking. Not on purpose. I think it was when I got to talking about Joe, the second or third time, that it quit being just the bare basics. I guess that's motherhood. Complicated. Nothing just _is_, it's always got a million little things that make it yours. Mine. Joe's.

There are still a lot of things I didn't say. And I'll probably have to say them at some point. But for now…progress. One day at a time, right?

As I'm heading for the door, she stops me and hands me one of those salt-and-pepper composition books. "I have an assignment for you. I don't expect you to turn it in to me, but I think it could be cathartic."

This ought to be good. Last I checked, orgasms were cathartic. Not so much homework. I listen, though. Lord knows I'm not in a position to refuse advice.

"Write a letter to your husband. And one to your son. All the things you don't say out loud, put it in there. You don't have to send it."

I wonder how much paper they've got around here.


	4. Home

**Author's Note:** Imagine my chagrin to notice that I hadn't updated in two weeks! I have to admit that I've now nearly depleted my reserve chapters and am not writing them at any pace comparable to...well, let's just say that blind snails move faster than I write. So be forewarned that things might move even more slowly in the future, and that's compounded by the fact that, as of six days from now, I'll be living in a country where I don't expect to have wireless and where my language skills are limited to asking if anyone speaks English, swearing, demanding beer, and saying "I love you, Goran Visnjic" in his native tongue (go ahead, think about his tongue, you know you were right there already). Anyhow, keep the thorough reviews coming, if you would. I'm a big fan of knowing how it is my writing comes across.

* * *

**"Home"**

"Luka?"

I made it the seventy-two hours, albeit with a lot of time spent with my head hovering over the toilet and chain-smoking and a couple internal monologues about getting the hell out of here, but I made it, and this is my reward.

"Yeah. Abby?"

Who the hell else was he expecting? "Mmhmm."

"Oh. You sound…I don't know, a little different." Yeah, no shit. Thirty-nine years of repressed emotions will do that to a person. "How are you?"

"I've been better." I've been worse, too. I keep having to remind myself of that.

"Yeah."

"I wish…I wish I could be there with you. How are you doing?"

"It's hard, Abby." I can fill in the blanks. It's hard without me there for him to lean on, and he resents it, and I don't blame him. "I'm glad Joe's here."

"Me, too. How does he like it?"

"Okay. Likes the attention from everyone. Nata and Stipe had him out in the yard chasing their soccer ball all morning."

I can only imagine the amount of dirt the three of them tracked inside. Nearly every picture Luka showed me of his niece and nephew had them caked in mud and wearing soccer jerseys. "Tell Niko and everyone how sorry I am."

He makes a sort of noncommittal grunt. "They're all asking. I don't know what to tell them."

"Tell them…Christ, I don't know. If you want to tell Niko, you should." God knows he needs somebody to talk to.

"I don't have to."

"You should. Niko, I mean. But maybe…can you not tell the rest?"

"Abby, they won't –"

"They will, Luka. I don't want them to hate me before I meet them."

His sigh crackles against the receiver. "They wouldn't hate you."

"Just…please."

"Yeah. Okay."

There's a good, awkward silence after that. I haven't been awkward with him since I planted one on him in the ambulance bay seven years ago. It's unnerving.

"I found the compass. It was…sweet. Thank you." Stuffed at the bottom of one of my shoes, just sitting there. I didn't even find it until I jammed my foot into it yesterday morning. And then bawled for a solid half hour.

"I thought…you might need it."

"I did."

He coughs a little, and I can just see him, hunched over, like he's trying to be really private about the whole thing, even if no one is in a ten-mile radius. "How is it?"

"It's not the Cirque Lodge or anything – "

"The what?"

"I mean…never mind. It's fine. It's good, Luka. It's where I need to be."

"Yeah."

I can't tell if it was an agreement or a statement. "Yes. I'm trying, I am."

"Good. I hope…that it works."

"Me, too."

"Yeah."

"So…I was thinking – I mean, that's what I'm here for, right?" Profound, Abby.

"Thinking?"

"Yeah. About…back when I was pregnant. And throwing up all the time."

"Why would you be thinking of that?"

"I just…never thanked you." The feelings thing is not my strong suit, but I'm trying, here. For him. "I mean, you were there for all of it, all the bad parts and the neurosis…and when Joe was in the NICU…and Maggie…I just never thanked you."

"Abby, you don't –"

"No, I do." I manage a deep breath. "I mean, you got me through all that, and I couldn't have done it myself, and I just wanted you to know that I did – I do – appreciate it."

"Well…if I remember it right, I kind of had it coming."

"What?"

"Luring you into my bed." For a second, I hear something in his voice. That flirtatious, sexy way he has, when his smile goes lopsided and the look in his eyes alone could just about evaporate my clothes off.

I want him here, now, touching me, holding me. Shit.

"Luka…I'm serious."

"So am I. I didn't do it because I had to, Abby."

"I know. But still."

"Well…you're welcome." There's a few seconds of dead air while we both search for something to say next. I can hear muffled noises in the background, and then Luka. "Hold on. Someone wants to talk to you."

"Maaaa." It's half question, half exclamation. I melt.

"Hey, Joe. How's Croatia?"

"Ninner?"

He wants to know if I'm going to be there for dinner. Shit. I try like hell not to cry and fail miserably. "Not tonight, sweetie."

"No?"

"No. I'm sorry, I wish I could be there with you."

"Peese?"

"I – I can't, Joe."

I can hear his little mutterings as he mulls it over. "No?"

"I'm so sorry, baby. I have to…" I can't bring myself to finish. "You and Daddy have to take care of each other for a little while."

"Dada?"

"Yeah. Take care of Daddy."

He says something that vaguely sounds like agreement, though he could be asking for a snack. There are certain things he says that, no matter how much maternal instinct I might have, I can't for the life of me figure out. I love those things. Then – "Mama fly? Avion?"

God, Luka must be grinning like an idiot at that one. I wish like hell I could see it. "Soon. You and Daddy spend some time together, just the boys, and then I'll come, too."

"Yes."

"Yes, I promise. Soon."

There are mumbles and scratches and then I hear Luka in the background, whispering instructions, and Joe responds with his best imitation of my favorite words, the ones that give me chills. It's a jumble of nonsense, but I understand all the same. He's telling me he loves me, in Croatian. _Volim te._

"I love you, too, baby."

More scratches and mumbles, and Luka's back. "He's learning."

"Yeah…soon he'll have me beat."

"Maybe you can learn together."

And there it is. Hope. "I'd like that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see I'm being given the one-minute warning. "Look…I'm going to have to go soon."

"Oh." We both stay silent a moment, and then he says it, and I knew he would, and it's not like it's unjustified. And it makes my heart slide down about six inches in my ribcage. "Are we going to talk?"

"We…" I almost say that we are talking, and stop myself. No more bullshit. "We will. I promise. But right now…I have to work on getting better, Luka."

"Isn't this part of it? The truth?" His voice raises a couple of notches.

"Yeah, it is. But…there are steps for a reason, Luka. I have to do this, one thing at a time. Fix myself before we can fix us."

"Fix us?"

"I mean…before I can deal with anyone else, I have to deal with myself."

"And I just sit here and wait?" There's a good dose of venom in the statement.

"I know it's not fair –"

"No, it isn't. You have a family, Abby."

"I know that! That's why I'm here, because for the first time, I _want_ to work through something!" A couple of heads turn to look at me but I really couldn't care less at this point. "Luka, I know this isn't fair, and I'm sorry, I am, but I need to do this. For all of us."

His sigh crackles in my ear. "I know."

"I don't have any right to be asking you for a favor, but I need you to just…give me time. Please. And then we can go from there."

"Can we?"

"Yes…I think so. I want to, Luka. And whatever it takes for us to be okay…I'll do it."

I'm getting the signal again, time to get off, and he's not talking. I hold up a finger. One minute. Please. "Luka…"

"I love you, Abby. I just…"

"I know." And I do, because that was what it was like with Maggie, and I swore up and down I'd never be her, and here I am. Doomed to repeat history. "I'm sorry, Luka."

"Me too."

"I have to go."

"Okay." His voice is dull, thickly accented. Emotion on Luka breeds accent. So does sleep. And making love. "Just…work on whatever you need to work on."

"I am. I will."

"I do love you."

"I love you, too. Kiss Joe for me?"

"Yeah. I will."

* * *

"Abby?" I recognize the voice, and what it probably wants, but at this point, I'm pretty invested in my sulking. I play possum. "We're having a Scrabble tournament. I thought you might want to join us."

I keep staring at the insides of my eyelids, waiting for her to take the hint.

"I know you're awake. My kids do that all the time. You're breathing too fast to be asleep."

Oh Christ, of all the idiot things. Which one of us went to med school? "I'm meditating."

"Hate to break it to you, but you're sulking." I can feel the dip in my bed as Marla sits down at the end. "Bad phone call?"

"Is there ever a good one coming out of this place?"

"I had phone sex with my husband once, before he left. There was this little phone booth, and –"

"You did not." I take the bait, and she's looking really smug as I roll onto my back.

"Yup. You should offer your husband. I mean, there's no better way to break the tension than a little dirty rehab talk."

I really don't mean to smile, but the memory of the one time we tried that when he was in Croatia and how we both ended up laughing hysterically after three minutes does me in. Not to mention the gift Neela got for me when I told her about the fiasco. "Okay, fine. You've killed my mood."

"You mean the bad one?" She gets to her feet and crosses her arms. "Come on, it's not often you have endless hours to sit on your ass and revert to your childhood. Don't waste it revisiting your teenage angst."

"You sure? Because I could go for some petty crime about now."

She laughs. Not just that placating, fake laughter, but real laughter. I wonder how the hell someone goes through what she has and can still laugh at meaningless things. "Yeah, okay."

It's amazing how a bunch of grown addicts can sit around like this, like it's another Friday night in junior high, drinking Fresca and playing board games. The last time I played a board game, I had a black eye and Luka was cheating for me at Pictionary.

"Abby?" Jenna, I think that's her name, looks at me like I'm an alien. "I don't…um…I don't think that's a word."

"Oh god. Yeah, sorry. It's…well, it is. It's just…" I can't even hold it together, because now Marla's figured it out and we're both giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. It's not even that funny, which makes it al the more amusing. "Sorry."

"I don't get it." Jenna looks really panicked now, which just makes me laugh harder.

Marla manages to choke out a couple of vague insults - I think "nerd" may have been mentioned – and I pull it together and give Jenna something that I hope looks sincere. The poor thing is so fucking insecure already; she probably thinks I've just insulted her in Croatian. "It's…it's a blood infection. I'm sorry, I'm still in hospital mode."

"You're a doctor?" Jenna's eyes get so wide I can see the whites all around. I didn't even think that was possible.

"Yeah. Fourth year resident." And then it hits me. What she must be thinking, and why she's so shocked. And why Lee is suddenly really interested in sorting his M&Ms by color. I mean, I knew, but I didn't think it would matter.

I'm a doctor. I should know better. Or at least, in theory. And that makes me either a really lousy doctor or a complete screw-up. Or both.

"Oh." She shrugs, but I can hear it in her voice.

Lee clears his throat so loudly that the Goth girl whose name is something I can never remember, and whose parents certainly didn't choose it for her at birth, shoots us all a dirty look from behind her sketch pad. "Double word score…so sixteen points."

Marla manages a smile, a little forced, but still. Three days in this place is like three months in the outside world. The fact that she's really pissed at Jenna on my behalf isn't just on principle.

Somewhere between going back to med school, having a kid, and having a relationship where I wasn't constantly trying to avoid any form of emotional intimacy, I stopped spending time with most of my friends. Whatever time I had away from County, you better believe I wanted Luka and Joe to myself. So as much as the time and place really bites, this part – just hanging out with people who I don't work with or aren't related by blood or marriage – is nice.

Not that I wouldn't rather be at home, stretched out on my own bed, watching Luka read to Joe in Croatian. That was probably the happiest time for me, when he came back. The only time my mind stopped screaming and I didn't need a drink.

I can't help but wonder if Luka knows how to play. If maybe he and his brother did this, while his father was dying in the next room. Just trying to escape, like I am now. And I wasn't there to help him, to let him lean on me, to hold him at night and try to take his mind off it. He didn't ask, but he shouldn't have had to. I'm his wife, and instead of being with my husband, I was falling apart without him, reveling in my own misery.

The thing is, I do want this – sobriety – for myself. But I want it more for Luka and Joe. It's totally counter to what the program says, but in my case, it's right. Because I don't just want it for their benefit, I want it so that I can be there with them, through all the good things and the bad things. If I didn't have them, I wouldn't be here. The first time I relapsed, I got sober without dealing with any of it. It was just putting down the drink, because my life was headed nowhere good and I really, really didn't like to look at myself in the mirror every morning. This time is different. This time, I have something that means enough to me that I don't care what I have to do – Chinese Water Torture, electroshock therapy, snake pits, whatever – to hold onto, and to keep from hurting again.

"Your turn again."

I assess my options. Two A's, two Ls, a C, an I, and a K. I could almost spell "Luka," not that it's an option. Neither is "alkie," which is totally inappropriate, and therefore a real pity. I could spell "lick," which makes me grin a little. Dirty mind.

I take a swig of my soda and study the board. Aha. "Click. With a double letter on the second C, for sixteen more points." I'm very proud of myself. I completely suck at Scrabble, and I'm losing really badly to the three of them. Though, to be fair, Lee and Marla have played at least once a day since I got here.

"And Abby moves into third place." Lee high fives me, and Jenna looks put out, which I have no shame in enjoying.

An hour later, I've been lucky with a couple more medical terms and a triple word score to finish a comfortable second to Lee, who proclaims himself the king of Scrabble and tries to insist that we all bow down to him. I cough and mention the pressing need to use the restroom, while Marla claims to be overdue for her evening prayers, which is complete bull, and Jenna looks like a deer in headlights and laughs nervously before giving a little Japanese bow and scurrying off.

Marla and I head back into the room and she flops down on her bed, rolling her eyes. "It's what they all secretly want, you know. For us to bow down."

"That and kneeling down." I pry open the to drawer of my cheap little dresser that seems to constantly want to spite me.

"That, too." Marla casts a longing look at the picture on my bedside table. "Though if he were mine –"

"Enough with the indecent comments about my husband."

She rolls her eyes at me. Okay, so it's a valid point, he's really gorgeous and any female with a pulse would be an idiot not to notice. I lie down and look at the photo a good, long minute. They'd be an idiot to cheat on him, too.

I take out the little salt-and-pepper journal and a pencil from under a stack of papers and clothes where I stuffed it in the hopes that it would disappear.

Time to get started on that letter.


	5. One Step Closer

**"One Step Closer"**

Seven days – it's not an awfully long time out there in the real world, but here, now, it's something. A week sober. Longer than I've gone without a drink in months. And it's funny, in a weird way, because I can remember when my sponsor, the one before Janet, took me out for dinner to celebrate being five years sober, and all I could think of was how it wasn't really that long in the scheme of things. And now I'd sell off my kidneys to have five months behind me.

It's hard, starting from scratch, but the little milestones help.

After Joe was born, every day was a little victory. He'd survived, made it through another night, so maybe, just maybe, we'd be okay if we got enough days behind us. When he was a week old, Luka bought a couple of those packaged cupcakes from the Jumbo Mart and a couple of candles and we had our own little party, which I cried through because I was terrified it would be the only party we'd have for him. He held me for a long time, just telling me we'd get through it, we'd be okay. And the night Joe turned one, while I was feeling all sorry for myself that Luka wasn't there and that I'd gotten stuck cleaning up the mess from the little party Neela had insisted she throw in his honor, and after both she and Joe were asleep, Luka called me and got me on the webcam and there he was, with one of those little cupcakes in front of him and a candle in it and a grin the size of Zagreb, and turns out he'd stashed one away in the fridge for us, too, behind all the jars of weird Croatian jellies and sauces he knew I'd never touch, planning on us opening it together, of course, and we sat there, smiling at each other like complete idiots and eating cake for our son's birthday, and I don't think I ever missed him quite as badly as I did that night. He was damned lucky I didn't try to crawl through the computer screen and have my way with him in cyberspace, because had he been there, I'd have been on him like white on rice. Instead I just sort of broke down and cried like a baby for a solid forty-five minutes over how close we came to losing Joe and how much I needed Luka there with me.

I wonder if we'll do that again; celebrating our anniversary, or my sobriety, or another birthday; or if I've fucked it up too badly this time. And I have to remind myself that we got through that, through Ames, through all of it and we'll make it through this.

I don't think I've ever understood what it was to fight for something, before. And it hurts, but I'm grateful, because I wouldn't be here if I didn't have Luka and Joe, if I didn't have something to lose.

It's sort of fitting that it's Lee's last day. We have a special group session, and Lee talks about his past in a lot more detail than before, in my first group, and it's sort of amazing to hear all of what he has to say and see him sitting there, smiling, and I know he's going to make it, somehow. Like Marla, he's been in rehab before, but it was a couple of years ago and it didn't do much for him, he says, because he went back to using right after he left. The group leader, Gretchen, asks him what's different this time, and he looks her dead in the eye and I have to respect how blunt he is when he replies that he woke up one morning and realized that his daughters would be better off if he died right then, and that he signed himself into rehab that afternoon. And that he told his wife before he left that if he ever went back to using, that she should take their children and get as far away from him as possible and never come back. Marla's mouth sort of opens when he says that and I can hear her whisper "holy shit" and I have to agree. I think everyone in the room who has children sort of stopped a minute when he said that and thought about whether they could do that. I used to wish Maggie had done that – send me and Eric away with our father – but now, thinking about Joe, I can't blame her, because I couldn't. At least, I don't think I could.

Gretchen gives him his thirty-day coin and asks him to read the Serenity Prayer, and he does, in an Irish brogue. Gretchen looks pissed, as do three or four of the group members, and the rest of us do a really lousy job of trying to hide our amusement. When he finishes, someone starts in on "Danny Boy," and the rest of us join in, and Lee starts pantomiming like he's got a pint of Guiness, swinging it around in the air, swaying, the whole bit. Gretchen keeps telling us to knock it off, that it's "inappropriate," but it's obvious that she's at least a little bit amused. After, there's hugging and handshakes, and when I get a chance, I hug him tightly and wish him good luck. I want to tell him how much I respect him for having the courage to tell his wife what he did, but I can't really manage to, and just smile. He seems to get it, though, and he nods and tells me I'll get there, that being a parent makes you stronger than you thought you coud be. I've heard it before, and Luka's even said it to me a couple of times, but it always seemed sort of lame before. And now it makes me realize it's not at all lame, that it's why I'm here, why I'm doing this. I nod and swallow the lump in my throat.

It's kind of amazing, the sort of people you meet in rehab.

* * *

After lunch, there's some free time, so I call Janet. It's part of the program here that we check in with our sponsors at least twice a week, not that I wouldn't anyhow, but they make you fill out this form whenever you call, detailing how long you spoke, how productive you felt it was, all sort of nonsense. I feel like I'm in kindergarten. Sometimes I think it's intentional, so that we don't want to come back.

She picks up her cell phone after one ring, and I can tell from her tone that she's been waiting to hear from me. I tell her it's been a week sober, and she congratulates me like a proud mother, which embarrasses the shit out of me. I tell her that I called Pratt and that he knows the whole thing, that I won't be back for another three weeks at least, and that he was more understanding than I'd expected. Actually, he was pretty great about the whole thing. Even offered to drive out here, to talk, to bring me whatever I needed, anything. We were friends before, but talking to him sort of made me realize how much he's changed since he was a resident, how much I do respect him. I think we'll be closer after this. Not just work friends, but real friends, somebody I can confide in. And I'm grateful for that. I tell Janet that and she tells me she's glad for me and that it's actually a part of my progress, reaching out to people. And I'm sort of proud of that, because it's not exactly my strong suit.

She updates me on the gossip – Neela, Morris, and the majority of the surgical and orthopedics departments were apparently all involved in some sort of hockey-related mess that resulted in a whole lot of bruising and she says that, according to Dubenko, Neela tried to beat the crap out of Morris. I know for a fact that Neela can't skate for shit – we went to a rink once, back when we were roommates, and she spent more time sliding on her butt than on her skates. I can only imagine what she did to Morris, given that after we got back, she was so pissed at me for making her try it that she actually short-sheeted my bed, which hasn't happened to me since college. Not that I didn't find it really damn funny, but I can hardly imagine Morris being thrilled about being beaten up by a girl, especially one the size of Neela.

I'm starting to think I've managed to escape talking about anything deep and meaningful, and then she drops it in there when I'm off my guard. "Have you talked to Luka?"

I sort of stall a few seconds, and she gives me a little verbal prod, and I sigh and reply that yeah, I talked to him.

"I take it that it didn't go well?"

"It…went. It wasn't horrible, I mean, we said we loved each other and all that, but he still wants the whole sordid story, and I'm not ready to go there."

She's silent a few moments, and I can tell she wants to know the whole story, too. I'm appreciative for her restraint. "I think you're right to wait until you have more of a handle on things. But don't wait too long. It'll get harder for both of you."

"Yeah. I know, I just…some things, you can't say long-distance." I fumble a bit with my words and try to work out what I'm thinking, aside from gloom and doom. "I think when I get out, I'll go there, or he'll come here. I mean, at least I hope so. And then…we'll talk."

"Have you asked him to come here? Before you leave? You might ask about a family therapy session."

"No." I can just imagine spilling it all out, all the details, in front of him while Celia watches us. Talk about awkward. "It's personal. I want us to deal with it, no audience, no artifical setting…I want to work it out like grown-ups."

"I respect that, Abby, but don't you think it has the potential to set you back if it doesn't go well?"

"No. I'm not going back there, Janet. I'm done with it. If he leaves me, or gets angry, whatever it is he does or says, I'm not doing that. I'm not."

"Okay." She sounds a little dubious, not that she's entirely at fault for distrusting me.

"I have to do this right. And I know it's driving him crazy, but I need to be there, see him, on my – our – own terms." And have the chance to go after him if I have to.

"Okay. I won't ask you about it again. If you want to bring it up –"

"I know. Thanks."

"No problem. Listen, I have to go for now, but call me and keep me posted. Any time of day or night."

"Thank you. And – I will. Keep you posted, I mean. I'm not much for the 3am phone calls."

"Good to know, and you're welcome. Keep working on it, okay?"

"Yeah."

We hang up, and I fill out my stupid little form, and I check "very productive" in the little box.

* * *

I'm informed that I've behaved myself well enough that I'm now permitted to take smoke breaks without supervision, which is both mortifying and thrilling. Marla and I go out back with Cynthia, who's probably about five years younger than I am, to celebrate. It's colder than hell out there, at least, if hell were at the South Pole. I've got a good three layers under my jacket, but no hat, and no scarf. Cynthia tells me she'll make me a hat, since she's constantly knitting or crocheting or whatever it is – I couldn't tell the difference if my life depended on it, but it involves yarn and some kind of stick. She says it's to keep her hands busy. Addicts. Go figure.

I lean up against the brick wall and inhale, getting a good shock of cold air to the lungs as well. To think I was doing so well – no cigarettes since before I found out I was pregnant. Longest I've gone since I was twelve. I keep telling myself I'll quit the second I leave here. We'll see how well that goes. I'm not making any promises, though. One day at a time, one addiction at a time.

"You think if we lived someplace warm and sunny, like California or something, we'd be this messed up?" Cynthia takes a long drag of her cigarette and blows it out in a long stream, which curls it's way up in the air, white as snow in the cold. "I mean, think about it. The sunshine has to have some kind of effect on you, right?"

"Nah." Marla hops up and down, vainly trying to stay warm. "All those idiots in Hollywood are snorting coke and binge drinking. They make the whole lot of us look like fucking pansies."

I snicker at that. "I had a friend awhile back who lived in Arizona and moved back here because she said all the sunshine was depressing."

"Your friend needs her head checked."

"No, I mean, I can see it. You've got to have weather. It'd be boring to have sun and clear skies all the time." Marla stubs out her cigarette and starts in on another.

"I'd go for boring right now," I offer. And I would. I could really do with lying on the beach, nice and warm, maybe watching Luka and Joe play in the water. We'd have done that in Hawaii, if things hadn't gone to hell in a handbasket.

Maybe, just maybe, we still will.

"If you could be anywhere, right now, where would you be?" Marla plops herelf down next to me and cozies up, which makes my left side a little warmer than my right.

Cynthia licks her lips, staring off into the distance. "Some remote island, without a bunch of tourists, lying in the sun and being fanned by a cabana boy in a thong. Him, not me."

Marla sighs. "Me too, but Abby's husband would be the cabana boy."

I shove her, and she cackles. There's a little tug in my heart for him, hoping, wondering, but it passes. Marla and Cynthia both turn to me. "Abby?"

"Croatia," I murmur, and the tug is back with a vengeance. "With my son and my husband." I clear my throat. "And Marla on another continent."

"As long as I get some X-rated pictures, I'll keep away. Besides, I try to avoid Eastern Europe. Too many vampires."

I roll my eyes and Cynthia laughs before breaking into a coughing fit.

I do it without thinking – it's funny, I can't even turn off the little switch in my head that controls actions, because it's a reflex now. She sounds ready to cough up a lung or a pancreas or god knows what else, so I just do it, grab her arms and hold them over her head. When she stops coughing, she sort of looks at me, and I shrug. "Have to give your lungs room to expand. If you're hunched over –"

"No, I got it." She shakes her head, smiling, and I don't know if she thinks I'm a lunatic or what. "You're such a mom."

The comment sort of hits me as strange, because I don't think of myself as one, but she's right. I am one, even if I don't think of myself with that label, because here I am with a son and I very specifically remember everything involved in the process of making him. It's funny, having that part of me that I never really think that much about, just like being a wife. I'm Abby the Fuck-Up, who happens to be a doctor with a husband and a son. The only label I've been able to hang onto since I was fifteen and decided to call myself a rebel is "addict." And I think maybe that's part of the problem, and maybe it's part of Luka's problem and Joe's problem, too. I should be that, a mother and a wife, for them, and for me, because as stupid as it sounded in that first group, I do forget that I'm more than an alcoholic and the daughter of Maggie. And both of them deserve more than that.

And I think maybe I might, too.

Revelations are sort of funny like that, just coming to you out of what seems like nowhere, and it's not a real revelation just yet, but it will be, I think. I keep wanting there to be a moment, when it all turns around, and I think maybe I'm reading too much into all of it. It's not one moment or some divine miracle, it's work, hard work, and a lot of blood and sweat and tears and maybe a couple of martinis and really bad decisions. And I think maybe if there was a moment, it's already passed, because really, it was there with Luka, asking for help, because I think that it might have been the bravest thing I've ever done.


	6. In These Times

**"In These Times"**

"It's Saturday."

Christ. For a second there, I was wondering when Joe's language skills had gotten so developed, because, seriously, who but a toddler pounces on you at seven in the morning on a Saturday just to state the obvious?

Marla. Marla does. And she's not nearly as cute as my son.

"Get. Off. Me." I grunt at her and try to shove her off me. Right. She's got seven inches and a good forty pounds on me – fifty, if you count her rack.

She prods me with her elbow as she lies down rather cozily next to me. I get the impression, once again, that I've been sucked through a vortex back to junior high.

"Saturday, Abby. No groups, no therapy, no shit breakfast – omelet bar and day trips. Even you can't Grinch all over this."

"Watch me." I put my whole effort into knocking her off the bed, which fails, but I get her closer to the edge. "Seriously, get lost. You're freaking me out."

"Why?"

"It's not natural to be this excited about a trip to the mall in the goddamned rehab-mobile."

"Yeah, well, I've missed civilization. Not all of us just came from there."

"I'll kick your ass right into civilization if you don't get out of my bed in the next ten seconds. Unless you suddenly morph into my husband, preferably naked, you are not welcome here."

"You want me to strip?"

"Fucking pervert. Get off!" I give her a solid kick, this time. I have very little to call my own, here, and I'll defend my bed with my life, if need be.

She snatches a picture of Luka off my night table and makes for the door. "Yeah, okay. Me and Luka will be in the shower if you need us."

"Give it back."

"Come and get him." She grins.

"Marla, I swear to god –"

"Can I borrow that electric toothbrush of yours? We'll be needing it for what I have in mind."

"That is completely uncalled for and not an image I want in my head." I reluctantly get out of bed and delicately pry the photo from her hands. "And so you know, I won't be having any more good dreams after that."

"Serves you right. You get the Balkan Boy-Toy in the flesh. Leave the dreams to the rest of us."

She'd probably die on the spot if I told her how long it had been. Not that the offer didn't arise when he came back – he was all over me the first few nights – but I couldn't do it. Couldn't make love with my husband knowing that he hadn't been the last one to touch me, remembering the bits and pieces of that night, feeling incomprehensibly filthy all over. He gave up, after awhile. And eventually he stopped even pretending to believe the excuses. He'd just roll over and go to sleep, and I don't know if he'd wait for me to fall asleep or if it was just in his sleep, but every morning I'd wake up with his arms around me and it felt completely right and completely wrong at once.

God, I miss him. And I hope to hell we get back to that place where being all over each other at any opportunity feels right. To both of us.

I guess Marla notices the shift, because she looks at me seriously, sort of leans down to look me in the eye, and asks if I'm okay. I just shrug, not really trusting my voice right then, and she puts a hand on my shoulder. "Miss him?"

"Yeah." I place the picture it back on the night table and flop back down on my bed. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure." She cozies up to me, and I don't shove her off right away, because, let's face it, we all need a good cuddle now and then, even if it is kind of creepy, spooning your rehab buddy.

"What happened with your husband? That he left, I mean."

She frowns and cocks her head to one side, like she's not sure what to say to that, twisting the drawstring of her sweatpants around her finger, around and around, and I'm about to apologize, but she cuts me off. "It was complicated. I mean, it wasn't like I fucked up once, or even twice, you know? It was a constant thing, and it just got to where he couldn't live with that, and he told me that he loved me and wanted me to get better, but that he couldn't be in a marriage with me, not like that."

I wonder what the threshold is for fucking up, and if there's a set limit, or maybe it's different for everyone. And how many fuck-ups I have against me…like, is being a drunk and getting drunk and sleeping with Moretti drunk and putting my kid in a car drunk all counted as one, or is it multiple counts, and how big a fuck-up does it have to be to count? What else have I done that's on the books, on his books, as a fuck-up?

"He and I still talk, I mean. It's not like either of us stopped caring, and he's tried to help me when he can. But I can't blame him. I mean, after awhile, I stopped even thinking of it like something I deserved or didn't, just as something that he and the kids deserved. I stopped being a good mother to them or a good wife to him. I hurt them, and I knew I was hurting them, and I didn't stop." She looks pensive a minute and then stares straight at me. "You can't assume that it's the same with you, though. It's not. Like I said, this is my third time. You've still got a chance to fix it. I didn't."

I hope she's right, because I'm not so sure some days.

* * *

The mall is way the hell out in the sticks and pretty much consists of a discount shoe store and a Tex-Mex restaurant, but I get my cell phone and twenty dollars – apparently, I'm not permitted to carry more than that, in case I decide to escape into the Great Wilderness of Suburbia. I find a quiet spot outside a coffee shop and huddle under the twenty or so layers I've got on and prepare to spend a goddamned fortune on international phone charges. But hey, privacy has a price.

Luka sounds like he's just woken up when he answers, although it's only about eight in Croatia, and I can't help but smile when he starts up in Croatian.

"Have I ever mentioned how sexy that is?"

The requisite puzzled pause while he works out why he's being spoken to in English and contextualizes the blatant flirtation is followed by the silent noise of him smiling. I have no idea how I know it, but I do. I guess it's one of those learned marital skills. "Hey."

"Hey." I start to ask him how he is just as he does the same, and I stay silent so that he'll talk first. When he doesn't, I manage a little laugh. "How's Joe doing?"

"He misses you." It sounds sweet enough, and I know he's telling me because it's my son and I'm supposed to have this little surge of relief that he misses his mother, but it feels like an accusation. Like I've abandoned him.

"I miss him, too. And you."

"I miss you, too, Abby." He says it a little wistfully, like he's aware that I need that reassurance, that he still wants me, even though he's made it real clear every time we've spoken since I've been here that I've hurt him, just in case I forget. I can't really blame him, there. "I was going through some of the things in the attic with Niko last night."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You know, just stuff my mother put up there, that we hadn't seen in awhile."

"Find anything good?"

"Mostly junk. She kept everything, I think. Boxes of buttons, old postcards, a lot of it we just had to throw out."

"Maggie's like that. Every time we moved, we had to take more and more useless junk with us. I think when I went off to college, we had something like four different waffle irons." And three old typewriters, an antique birdcage, and twelve shoeboxes full of jam jars in case she decided to make preserves, which she never once did. Among other things.

"Yeah. It's crazy, you know? So much stuff from their lives, you couldn't pay someone to take." His voice sounds a little faraway. I bet good money that the two of them spent the night up there, getting progressively more wasted, and ending with a drunk sob session and lots of hugging. "It's nice, though, seeing it all. Well, most of it, at least. Not the dead squirrel Niko found."

"Eew."

He laughs, a real, hearty laugh that warms me from the inside. I love that, his real laughter. Not the sort of laughter that he has when he's laughing at a joke that isn't really that funny, but the sort of laugh when he finds something that I normally don't even blink at to be the funniest thing in the world, or when I try to do something domestic and fail miserably and he has to rescue me before I set the kitchen on fire. "He thought it was an old shoe or something at first, because it was in the corner, and he went to pick it up, and –"

"Yeah, you know I don't think I need to hear the rest of this. I get the general idea."

"You sure you don't want to hear about how he threw it at me, and –"

"Luka, seriously. That's gross." I smile, though.

His tone changes, all of a sudden, and it's palpable, his sadness. "There was this one box, though. Just a bunch of pictures, I was just going to have Niko put it in his place…" He sort of trails off, and I don't know whether he's going to finish, but then he says it and I actually ache for him, physically ache. "There was a picture of Marko."

It takes me a few minutes to say anything. "Luka…I…"

"Sixteen years, Abby. I didn't even know…I thought…and he looked…he looked the same as I remembered him."

"Oh, Luka."

"I just…" His voice sort of breaks off, and I can't stand not being there to hold him, to touch him. "I was so afraid I was going to forget his face."

"I know." Really, I can't know, not even close to it, but I can't find anything better to say.

"Being here…" He sighs. "I need you, Abby. I know you need to do this, and I want you to get better…"

"I know. I know, Luka." I think my heart might actually be breaking right now. It's rare that Luka comes out with anything really raw like this, or asks me for something, even something he knows I can't give. And the thing is – "I need you, too."

We both sort of let that settle, knowing full well that neither of us can do much of anything to make one another feel any better. It hurts, knowing that if I hadn't screwed up, hadn't had that wine that night and then let it all just spin out from there, like some possessed fucking entity with a life of its own, even thought it was all me behind the proverbial wheel, that I'd be the strong one and I could be there to do whatever it was he needed. Let him cry on my shoulder, go through the attic with him, make love with him, anything to make it better. "After you're out…when you can…will you come?"

"Of course I will."

"Yeah. Okay." He sounds relieved, like he wasn't sure of the answer. "It's beautiful, Abby. Hard…but there's this one place, one I used to go as a kid. The only person I ever showed it to was Jas." I've never once heard him call her that. "I went there, the other day with Joe. I think he knew, you know? That it was special."

I imagine white sand and the clear sea that I've only seen pictures of, from some hidden little grotto with a faded scribbling in Croatian, maybe a little reminder that Luka was there, in another lifetime, with his daughter. "He's smart like that."

"Good genes, maybe."

"That and his hair."

Luka chuckles, and I feel the sudden urge to run my fingers through the item in question and breathe in the smell of his shampoo. "It's beautiful there. I want…I want you to see it."

"I will. I promise."

"I just want you to be better, Abby. Be okay again."

"Me too."

"You remember the Bishop, back when we first –"

"I remember." It was probably that night, back then when he told me about Danijela, started to open up a little, that I realized I could really love him. It scared the shit out of me back then. "The priest with lupus."

"Right." I can hear it, that he remembers it, too. "Well he told me something, the day he died. He said…he said faith is like intimacy in a relationship. That sometimes it's easy, it's passionate. And sometimes you can't find it, no matter how much you try."

"I don't understand."

"He said it wasn't about God, it was about the person. About us. That it was there, you just have to find it. I think…I think it was always there with us." There's a pause, and his voice shakes a little now. "I want to find that, Abby. I want to be back where we were."

"I don't."

"What?" He sounds genuinely alarmed.

"I don't want to be back where we were. I understand what you're saying, I do. And it's…it's beautiful. But you have to understand; I can't go back to that. I can't go back to who I was." God knows I can't.

"I thought…"

"I love you, Luka, but I need you to understand that I was never all there. It wasn't that I didn't love you or care about you or want you – "

"You didn't love yourself."

"Exactly. And for this to work…"

"I understand. "

"Do you?"

"I think so. As much as I can understand." His sigh crackles in my ear, and I remember all of a sudden what it felt like that night after Neela's wedding, right after we made love for the first time of many, him whispering in my ear that he thought friendship was overrated, and I laughed and he kissed that spot on my neck that sends shivers up my spine and announced, very softly, but very sure, that he never wanted to be my friend. "As hard as this is, Abby…you know I love you, right?"

"I do."

"There's a lot of good things, Abby. I wish you saw that."

"It's not that easy right now."

"Try. For me. And Joe."

"I will." For him and for Joe.

There's a sort of awkward pause there, and I know what he's thinking – it's been such a good conversation, but at some point in every phone call, the twin elephants that keep barging in surface. And sure enough – "Just talk to me, Abby. Please."

"Luka…"

"Whatever it is –"

"I can't. I can't Luka, not like this. I know it isn't fair; I just don't want to do this over the phone. Not now."

"Then when?"

"When I can trust myself not to drink myself into oblivion."

"Is it that bad, Abby? Whatever you did, is it so bad you think I won't love you?" He's angry, and I know he's trying not to let it show, but I can tell, and I can tell he's scared as all hell and I feel terrible, but I know that it isn't right, not now. Not for me or for him.

"Luka…I just…"

"I can't do this, Abby. I can't pretend –"

"Please, Luka."

"Did you kill someone, Abby? Go to work drunk? Have an affair? Hurt the baby? Christ, Abby, please –"

"I can't, Luka. I can't do this. Please – " There are tears freezing to my eyelashes and it hurts like a sonofabitch and I don't care.

"I'm tired of being fair, Abby. Because it's not. It's not fair to me."

"I know."

"Then _tell me_, for Christ's sake!"

"I can't, Luka! I can't do this on the phone, I can't do this knowing that I can't keep myself sober!"

There's a long, hard silence, and I almost think he's hung up on me until he finally speaks, his voice gone dull. "I'll give you a call tomorrow. When Joe's up."

"Okay."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Luka – I love you. I do. And I'm sorry."

"Yeah. Me, too."

* * *

I ball myself up under the covers when we get back and blow off our evening session. I'm betting good money that I'll pay for it in revoked smoke breaks but at this point I could really give a shit, because the idea of facing people is about as appealing as cuddling with a porcupine. I just lie there, contemplating the wall, until Marla comes in and glances at me and I thank her silently for not asking me where I was. Instead, she flops down on her bed and kicks off her shoes, real casual, and asks me if maybe I'd like to go to chapel with her in the morning.

I shake my head and go to roll over but she catches my eye, somehow, and I swear she has some sort of special powers that allow her to do it, or maybe it's just how bright fucking green her eyes are, and cocks her head to one side and tells me it'll pass. And for a second, I believe her.

I think to myself that maybe that's why I like her, why I trust her, her ability to have faith in other people and almost convince them of it, too. And it's really that it reminds me of Luka and how he has this vast, incredible amount of faith that I can't understand, because if ever there was someone who should have thrown in the towel in that department, it was him. You don't live through the sort of things he did and come out whole, and god knows, he didn't. But somehow, he still has faith, in God, in humanity, in the idea that things will be okay.

And I wonder if maybe he could keep his faith through Vukovar and through the Congo and through the NICU and all of it, if maybe he can keep his faith in me through this.

It's one of the things I love about him that I'd find irritating in most people, but it's because it's not some dogmatic bullshit with him, it's his heart. He has an unfathomable capacity to love and I think that's why when something or someone gets in the way, whether it's the mugger on our first date or Carter or Ames or my drinking, he can't let it go, he fights it, hard, because he's lost so much in the past and he's not willing to go through that again.

And of course, that's sort of a problem when it's me and my drinking all wrapped up in one package, and I get that, even through I'm not sure he does. And I hope like hell he can separate the two and love me without that part, or maybe love me in spite of that part or even with it, but love me and not have to hate the alcoholic part of me. I don't know if I deserve that, granted, and god knows I don't know that I can do that for myself, even, but I never pretended for a second that I had that same capacity to love that Luka does, and so I hope even if I don't deserve it that he will.

Maybe that's why people have faith in God and have their religion; it's hoping that someone will be better at this whole living thing than we are and help us out even when we fuck it up or turn against them or whatever else. I've never found religion my thing, not since I was a sophomore in college and decided I was in love with this very Catholic guy whose name I can't even remember but I do remember his Irish brogue and the guitar and that he looked an awful lot like Sting, but I can see the appeal, sort of, and I get why it's a part of the program. Because maybe it's not about religion, really, but finding your own faith, whether it's in God or in your children or in whatever else works, until you manage to put a little faith in yourself.

I roll back from the wall to face Marla, who's got her feet splayed on the wall in a really unladylike way as she paints her toenails. "What do they even give as communion to a bunch of alcoholics, anyhow?"

She grins. "Triscuits and Hawaiian Punch."

"You're kidding."

"It's not exactly like the Pope oversees this thing, Abby. It's a place to think. Shit, you can sit in the back and look at lesbian porn for all anyone cares."

"Animal sacrifices?"

"Totally permissible."

"Well in that case –"

"Porn's in the bottom drawer. Hamsters and matches are in the closet."

"Good to know."

"You're going to go with?"

"And pass up lesbian porn and killing rodents? I'd never forgive myself."

"Good." She smiles and goes back to her toes and leaves me to contemplate just how much faith my husband has and if maybe, maybe, it's enough.


	7. Winter

**Author's Note: **A thousand apologies for not updating for...ever. I've been laid out with bronchitis and c. diff for the past month, on top of travel and schoolwork. I didn't want to be hasty in writing this chapter, so I let it run its course in due time. Many, many thanks to Color Esperanza for her help on this one. I know it's a risk and a bit of...well...artistic license, I guess. I went back and forth on it a lot. I'm eager for and afraid of reviews, but, hey, "ER" was originally rejected by every single network, so I guess I can handle whatever feedback I get. Also, I know the language is getting, well, rough. I feel that it's necessary for this story in particular, but I'm willing to up the rating to 'M' if people feel it's warranted. Personally, I swear like a drunken sailor, so this is pretty mild for me...

* * *

**"Winter"**

"Have you ever heard the term 'master status'?"

"Rings a bell." It's been way too long since college.

Celia smiles. "It refers to someone's most predominant identity. Their perceived social role, and the way it shapes their lives."

"Ah. And you think mine is 'alcoholic'."

"I think that's the status you assign yourself, and that it creates a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy for you."

"No shit."

She lets that one pass. "How do you think Luka would describe you? If he had to assign you a master status?"

I contemplate that. I think the problem is that Luka puts me on a pedestal, refuses to see my flaws. And that was comfortable, it was refreshing, to have someone look at me and not see all the things that need fixing. Until I stopped trying to look at the flaws myself. They were still there, still eating at me, but I wasn't working on them. And when Luka was gone, and all of a sudden things got too much, they were there, to fall back on, and he wasn't, and even if he had been, I don't know that I'd have asked for his help, because I didn't want to break that image of me that he had. And I sure as shit didn't want him to look at me like _that_, because, as far as I know, he's the only person who's ever looked at me and not wondered what could be.

"His wife."

"His wife?" Celia looks surprised.

"His wife…his soulmate…some perfect being that doesn't really exist."

"I see."

"I think that's why it's so hard for him. This. He has a hard time with my being human."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Aren't we supposed to be talking about me?" I get a look that says my bad mood is not welcome here. "Fine. I think…I think it's because he sees me as his savior or something. I mean, he was pretty messed up for most of the time I knew him. Haunted."

"By his first wife?"

"And his kids, yeah. And…just everything that happened there. It really sort of…I don't know, broke him. He was always there, but there was all this…damage on the surface. Not like he was tainted or something, I'm not saying that. But, like…jagged. Rough. And he just kept making himself more miserable, drinking, sleeping around – not while we were together – looking for happiness in the wrong place. And, I mean, I wasn't doing much better. And then…we just…" I try to find a way to tell her about that night without it being too personal. That night is sort of a sacred thing, you know? It's hard to express exactly what happened – I'm not sure I even know.

"Found each other?" Celia offers. She's seen the compass.

"Yeah. And things just sort of fell into place. We both found a way to let go of all that and just…be. And I know, whether it was me, or Joe, or whatever, that he changed. Healed. And I think he gives me the credit for that."

"I see."

"I don't know that I want to change that. I mean, I'm not being egotistical. I'm not into being worshipped. I just – whatever that did it for him – I don't want to take that away. I don't want to break him again."

"Is there a way for him to see the flaws without letting it ruin the image he has of you?"

"I don't know," I murmur. "I guess we'll see."

Celia looks like she's trying to process this and find a way to make something productive of it. She's all about productivity. And sure enough, she tilts her head and sort of inspects me, furrows her brow – the stereotypical "and how does that make you feel" look. "What would you ascribe to Luka as a master status? If you could only choose one thing, what would it be?"

I run through the options in my head – sex god, Croatian sensation, Doctor Feelgood, and all the other sexual euphemisms that are probably not the answers she's looking for, but still up there on my list. And then there're others, mostly very nonspecific ones, like Croat, doctor, father, husband. None of which encompass him. And see, even though the first thing I think of when I think of Luka is how absolutely in love with him I am, it's not the same thing as how he sees me. I think I can see his flaws and love him in spite of them. Or, really, because of them, as much as anything else. I mean, he wouldn't be who he is without them, and yeah, sometimes they drive me crazy, like when his intensity gets the better of him…or when his brooding goes from being sexy to being downright annoying…or, and this is dumb, but still – the fact that he gets absolutely ridiculous when it comes to some things, like soccer, or Christmas, or whatever else, and turns into a five-year-old. I have the feeling that there's a soccer hooligan somewhere in there. And it's cute to a point, until he decides to tape mistletoe to every surface in the house, or order some obscenely expensive television package so he can watch every single game of that stupid European soccer tournament, or – no joke – hide Easter eggs around the apartment, which is fine until he forgets where they are and we don't know until they rot. But see, there are those things, his flaws, and there's the rest. The jaggedness. And that part isn't a flaw, I don't think, it's his past, his damage. And the damage is a hell of a lot harder to deal with than the flaws, but it's worth it.

"Luka isn't any one thing but complicated."

She raises an eyebrow. "Complicated?"

"Luka doesn't have a master status. There's…there's no real way to describe him without leaving something important out."

Celia smiles, clearly thinking me adorable for saying that. "Do you think that applies to you, as well?"

"What?"

"Not having a master status. Not being summed up by any one thing."

"Well…I mean, I guess you can't really give anyone a master status, really. I mean, I get the idea of it, but it sounds…alienating. Like pegging someone based on something that could be totally irrelevant to who they really are."

"That's my point, Abby. That you hang onto this stigma you assign yourself of being an alcoholic, and I think it becomes a way for you to devalue yourself."

Okay, that right there, I have to give her credit for. "The night I drank…the night I fell back into it…I was just so overwhelmed. And then it was there, this bottle of wine, and I didn't even want it at first, but it was like something woke up and it just told me that it was a way to cope, and that it wasn't like anyone really cared if I fucked up."

"Is that how it was the time before? The first time you relapsed?"

"No. Then, it was about not wanting to be myself, I think. I wanted to just be normal, not have to carry it around, so I tried to bury it, and just have a beer, prove to myself and everyone else that I didn't have to worry about it."

"And it got out of control."

"Yes and no. Not at first. And then…I just _hated_ myself for it. For being that person. So I stopped. It wasn't like this time, where I just needed a drink so bad it hurt. It was sort of like a really bad experiment and I decided to just sweep it under the rug. I didn't work much on it, not like the first time I got sober."

"What made you get sober the first time?"

A wry little laugh comes from my throat. "I hit rock bottom. Hard. And realized that unless I got sober, I'd just keep landing on my ass."

"What do you mean by that? Rock bottom?"

"I…I lost control. Not just of my drinking, but of myself, when I was drinking. And when I wasn't. Of all of it. I lost who I was. I mean, I wasn't happy before, and I sure as hell didn't have it all together, but at least I could look in the mirror. But it just got to a point where I wasn't numbing pain, I was just numb, and sort of gave up all of who I was."

"How so?"

"I just…I lost all the things that made me…_me_. I was just this zombie, walking around calling herself by my name. I wasn't thinking about anything but how much I hated myself and wanted to drink that away, I wasn't aiming for anything except to get through the day and have a drink, I wasn't…I wasn't making my own decisions."

"Who was making them?"

"When I was drunk? Anyone and anything that wanted to. I was just…a mess. I was fucked up enough sober; drunk, I was a train wreck."

"And when you were sober?"

"Hmm?"

"Who was making the decisions for you when you were sober?"

I want to tell her it wasn't that easy, that it was everything – the tornado that was Maggie, my manipulative jackass of a husband, my job, my own insecurities – but I know what she'll say, that I'm always in control of my own self, and my own decisions, and obviously that's true since I'm here, as hard as it was. "Me. It was me. But I was doing a really lousy job of it, and I usually deferred to whatever and whoever seemed to know what the fuck was going on." Well, okay, in Maggie's case, she didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I like to think that my mother is the exception to every rule in the book.

"But they didn't make good decisions for you?"

"Not really. Not what I really wanted, or needed, at least. Richard – my first husband – he was very…certain of himself. I think that's part of what attracted me to him at first, because I wasn't, so he seemed…I don't know, grounding. The antithesis of my mother. And for awhile he had me convinced, I think, that I wanted what he did, for him, and that I was okay with coming second. I'm not saying it was all his fault. I just…I don't know. I didn't know what I wanted. He knew what he wanted, and that was good enough for me, I guess."

"And now you know?"

"Yeah. Fuck yes, I know."

Celia nods and we both sort of sit in silence for a minute or so, and I take the little metal puzzle thing from the side table and attempt for the ten thousandth time to solve it.

"When you say you lost control, what did you mean? How did you take back control?"

How I took it back. Right. Like it I just decided, hey, today would be a good day to clean up my entire life. Sitting down and contemplating it. Maybe it seemed like it was a decision that I just made all of a sudden this time, but it was a hell of a lot more of a realization. Opening the gates and letting all of the shit that had happened finally hit me full on and actually looking at it instead of just drinking it into submission. Seeing Luka and Joe slip away from me and realizing that it wasn't going to be okay, not this time. Though I think that was comparatively easier than the first time. Losing them was a big motivator.

"Do we really have to get into that?"

Celia picks up on the panic I've apparently not disguised very well and her eyebrows head north. "Yes, I think we do."

I can remember it perfectly, though, what pushed me past the need to be numb and into the zone of needing to get my head on straight, and I'd really not think about it, but here we are at reckoning day and I know damn well I haven't got a snowball's chance in hell of backing out of this one.

"Richard used to have his college friends over once a month to sit around and drink and a couple of them would get loaded and they'd…I don't know. Relive their college heydays, play poker, video games, that sort of shit. I usually went out, made sure I wasn't around, because some of his friends were real assholes. But this one night, I was just…I don't know, not in the mood. For anything. And anyway, I was there, and they were all drinking and one of them who I didn't actually loathe invited me to join them. And, of course, I got plastered with them, except that I guess they weren't as plastered as I was. And…I don't know…I sort of lost control, acting like a complete moron, although I can't really remember. And Richard grabbed me by the elbow – I remember that because it was like I was a kid, or something – and took me out of the room and said I was embarrassing him and I should just go to bed."

I wait for Celia to ask me how that felt, but she doesn't, so I plow on through.

"I was just standing in the bedroom, staring at myself in the mirror, hating myself for being such a fuck-up, and the same one of his friends who'd invited me to join them came in and he put a hand on my shoulder and said that I didn't deserve to be treated that way. That Richard shouldn't take a girl like me for granted."

"He was right."

"Yeah, well, it felt…I don't know. Disingenuous. Anyway, I was still just staring at the mirror, completely out of it and had that feeling like I wasn't in my body, and all of a sudden, he starts kissing my shoulders and my neck, and I just stand there like an idiot, totally…stuck…and he had his hands all over me, but really gentle, not like he was asking for anything, and Richard just…he never used to do that, be sweet to me. And it wasn't, but it was…it was like, if he'd have been harsh, I might have done something, snapped out of it, but I didn't. I was numb. And I didn't know what to do, and I mean, I don't even think I knew my name at that point, and so I just…let him."

"Let him? Let him what, Abby?"

She wants me to say it. And she can go fuck herself, because she knows damn well.

"Abby?"

"Yeah."

"I need you to tell me what happened. You know I do."

"You know where I'm going with this. I'm not spelling it the hell out."

"Abby – "

"Look, I told you about Moretti. I told you what I did. I'm not going through the exciting details all over again. Copy and paste it from the last time."

"Abby…" She sighs and twirls a pen around in the air. "Did you ask him to stop?"

_He leads me over, sits me down on the bed, clothes coming off. Too much vodka, Abby. Too much vodka. He's laying me down, touching me, whispering. "Richard doesn't know what he has. If you were mine…" More lips. And what if I were? Would he send me to bed without supper, too? Lips, hands, tongue. My socks are still on. Where did the rest go? He wants to make love to me, he says. Make me feel good. What do I want? I want to sleep._

"Was it consensual, Abby?"

"_I don't…I don't think…" That's the problem, isn't it? He's kissing me and I can't say anything through his lips. "Shh. I wouldn't hurt you. I've wanted this for a long time. Haven't you?" I just want to sleep. Maybe I am. Maybe this is just a dream. Maybe too much vodka. I should remember that, shouldn't I? Maybe not so much vodka next time._

"Abby. Did he hurt you?"

_Laying on top of me, warm and heavy. Pressing too much weight, I think, because it's hard to breathe with him on me. He's whispering to me. Wasn't that amazing, Abby? Fingers in my hair. "Better than Richard, right? It always feels better when it's with someone who really loves you." Loves me? He can't love me. He doesn't even know me._

"I never said 'no'. And he didn't hurt me."

"That doesn't make it consensual, Abby. You know that."

I do know that, except when it's me, because I know myself and I know I ought to have stopped him. Said something. Anything.

"How long have you been a doctor?"

"What?"

"How long have you been a doctor?" she repeats.

"Officially? About two and a half years. Plus a year of med school before that, three years of being a nurse before that, three years of med school before that –"

"So, awhile."

"Yeah." Feels like a lifetime, when I think about it.

"And in that time, have you ever had anyone tell you what you just told me?"

Oh, fuck. I know where this is going. "Yeah, but –"

"And how many times did they tell you they didn't say 'no'?"

"A couple." Bitch. Absolute bitch. "Look, can we not do this?"

She stares me in the eyes, real even, head tilted to one side, lips pursed, the classic I-know-you're-bullshitting-me look. "We need to do this, Abby. You know that."

Yeah, I do, but the amount of money I'd pay to not have to do this involves selling off my major organs and committing a couple of felonies. "You're saying that even though I didn't ask him to stop that it wasn't consensual. I get it. Except that my husband was two rooms away and would have beat the absolute shit out of him if I'd made some noise."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because…I didn't."

"Was it because you were embarrassed?"

"I don't know what I was."

Celia raises an eyebrow at me. "Did you trust him to realize it wasn't your fault?"

"I'm not a real trusting person." Understatement of the month.

"Did he ever give you any reason to feel that way?"

"A few."

"A few? From the way you've described him –"

"Yeah, well, we both gave each other more than enough reasons not to trust each other."

"Did you ever tell him what happened?"

I give a little laugh. "Right."

"Abby…" She sighs. "From what you've told me, it sounds like it wasn't consensual. And whether or not you said no, whether or not he was violent –"

"I wasn't raped. Not by him, and not by Moretti. Drunk or not, I made decisions. Really fucking bad ones, but decisions."

"Abby –"

"No, you know what, no. I'm not going to call it something it wasn't just to excuse it. I could have asked him to stop. I could have fought him. I could have screamed and let Richard come in and see and kick his sorry ass." I also could have not had that vodka, not had that martini, not let Moretti drive me home, not gotten out of his car, not followed him upstairs for the lure of a drink, not had the drink, not gone along when he kissed my neck, not kissed him back, not let him undress me…there were a thousand and one things I could have not done. "You can call it whatever the hell you want, but I'd like to actually take responsibility for my screw-ups."

"Abby –"

"Just stop it. Please."

She nods, and I'm a little pleased to see the look of defeat on her face. "For now. We'll drop it for now."

* * *

I'm exhausted after the session with Celia, and all I want is to hear his voice. Even if it's angry, I want – I need – his familiarity. To hang onto that. Because it's eating at me, our last conversation, and I need to know, for my own sanity, that I'm doing the right thing, here. I know it's killing him; I get that, even if he thinks I can't possibly get it. Because I've been on the other side before, wanting to know and being shut out, wondering if it's going to take us both down, wondering if I have the strength to do this.

And the thing is, there's a big part of me that wants to tell him, just get it over and done with, because it's eating at me like a bacteria, but I know it's not right. Not like this. As much as it's going to suck, I know I have to say it to him, looking right at him, facing what I did to him, to us, to Joe. You get one chance at this sort of thing.

I have to dial a few times, because this calling card plus the international number is a pain in the ass, something like thirty numbers, and I inevitably hit the wrong one halfway through. The beeps ache in my ear like the sound tests they do on little kids, you know, clap when you hear the beep. I don't really want to clap, though.

"Molim?"

Not Luka's voice. That much I can tell. "Hello? Niko?"

Some rapid Croatian is fired off at me and then some more in the other direction and another voice that does not belong to my husband comes over the line. "Hello?"

"Hi, Niko?"

"Yes. Abby?"

"Yeah. Hi." I wait for him to greet me as well, but he doesn't, so I keep going. "Is Luka there?"

"No. Luka is not here."

"Oh. Well…do you know when he'll be back?"

"No."

"Okay, well, when you see him…can you tell him to call me, please?"

"Okay." It sounds like he'd really rather tell me to take a hike. I wonder what Luka told him, or if it's just that he's been moping around, or what, because that is not the same brother who smiled at me like I'd just told him he won the lottery and called me extraordinary.

"Look, Niko…I'm sure Luka told you what's going on, I just want you to know how sorry I am for the way I acted. I wasn't…I didn't mean to be so distant. I was going through a bad time."

"And now Luka pays for it, eh?"

"Excuse me?"

His voice drops, just like Luka's when he's pissed. "Nothing. Nothing. Forget what I am saying."

"Niko –"

"I will tell Luka you are calling when I see him. His choice if he calls you."

I go to say something else, apologize again, but there's a dial tone and I don't think it would have gotten me too far anyhow. "Shit," I mutter, and hang up. I see Celia heading for the door, leaving for the day, and chase her down.

"Hey. Wait a second."

"Abby. I'm just leaving. If you need –"

"Look, I know this is a big favor, but could I please, _please_ go out to smoke? I can't…I can't just stay in here. Please." I'm practically groveling, but those revoked smoke breaks I'm still paying for are killing me.

She sighs and glances at the board that keeps track of what we're allowed on a given day, a big red zero where it says how many breaks I get. "You'll have to take that up with the shift leader."

"Please. Just…five minutes. To clear my head."

She looks at me and I see the process – from hesitation to pity to surrender – and she dips her head. "Five minutes. I'll let them know I okayed it."

"Thank you." I could hug her. Really, I could. But she points to the clock meaningfully and I take off, grab my coat and a pack of cigarettes and practically throttle the nurse at the desk when she takes her sweet time getting me a lighter and then bolt out to the smoking area in back of the unit.

It's snowing, and has been for awhile, apparently. I wouldn't know thanks to my lack of smoking rights in the past thirty-six hours. I don't know what possesses me, but I find myself a good, sturdy pile of snow on a little patch of what I'm assuming was grass before it was frozen and precipitated on, and heave myself back into it. Arms and legs clear out a space, just like when I was a kid, and there I am, making a snow angel and smoking, and I can only imagine what sort of ridiculous poster child for the clinically insane I must be right about now.

I can remember my first snow angel, actually. Eddie taught me, when I was about five, I think. There was this massive blizzard – we were living just outside St. Paul at the time, so when I say blizzard I mean half of Everest fell on the city – and I had a solid week off school while everyone regrouped. Maggie was in the hospital at the time, and Eddie didn't know what to do with me, I don't think, so we spent the whole week just playing in the snow, building not only a snowman but an entire extended snow family and a small village of forts, sledding at the park. We'd just gone down what was probably a tiny hill but seemed like a mountain to me on the little purple saucer he'd bought me and completely wiped out at the bottom. There was blood in the snow, and I must have cut my lip, but the real thing I remember is just laughing, laughing my little snowpants off, and Eddie picked me up out of the snow and tossed me back into a fresh patch and told me to wave my arms and legs. And then he lifted me up out of my patch and showed me my handiwork. My snow angel. I remember feeling like he must be the greatest dad in the world, right then.

Well, that didn't turn out quite like I thought back then, but it's a good memory still. I think about when I'm out, and maybe Joe's a little young now, but next year, I'll teach him to make a snow angel of his own. And Luka, too, and teach them how to sled, because he told me once he's never gone sledding, which is a crying shame if you ask me.

And of course all this hinges on Luka, and on me, and if we've gone past the point of no return or not. I know, for me, I'm still there, still want him and want to make this work, but it's becoming abundantly clear that while it's about what I've done and what I do now, at least in large part, it's not up to me quite as much as it's up to him. I know that if he wants me, still, then I'm in. Hell and highwater, I'm in.

But see, Niko's got me thinking that maybe it's not enough for me to apologize and try to make it right. Maybe all that jaggedness isn't fixed, really, just covered over, and here I've gone and unearthed it and now it's out there and then some, and maybe this was the straw that broke the camel's back. Broke Luka, finally. Maybe he was never really okay, just biding his time in the sun, hoping it lasted, not dealing with all the shit covered over by what we had. It didn't really occur to me, not until now, but maybe this isn't all me. Maybe this, and his father, and going home, maybe it's too much.

And for the first time, I consider the possibility that Luka really has had enough.


	8. Can't Give Everything

**"Can't Give Everything"**

I don't sleep much that night. Or that morning. I just sort of lie there, letting thoughts overtake me. Not willing them to come, really, just letting them come and go. The addict's form of meditation, I guess.

I think about things I haven't thought about in awhile. Things that went wrong, things that went right. I think a lot about my relationships, and those sort of moments where it came down to the bare bones, the fight or flight moments. Being proposed to by Richard, being sort-of but not really proposed to by Carter, an ultimatum from Jake. What would have happened if things had gone the other way, how my life would have been different.

The times Luka asked me to marry him.

I wonder now and then what would have happened if Carter had asked. I know he was going to, before I saw the ring, at the restaurant. A guy – not even John Carter – rents out a restaurant without one hell of a reason. I know right where it went south, too. Asking me about change, hearing my answer. I wouldn't change. Not for him, not for anybody, at least that's what I thought then. I changed for Luka. Well, not for him. With him, because of him. Or maybe it was more of an acceptance. What I wanted, deep down, past the fear and the fuck-ups. I wanted the baby, and when it came down to that moment, Janet coming into the room and seeing the fear in my eyes, asking me if I wanted a minute, I realized I didn't need a minute. I knew what I wanted, and what it would do to me and to Luka if I didn't let myself have it. That shock of fear at the prospect of letting it go, and then it turned into something, not a pregnancy I was scared shitless of. A baby I was scared shitless of and wanted. And then realizing, too, what I wanted, had wanted for a very long time, was Luka. For the long haul. It took longer than with the baby, and it took one hell of a wake-up call, but the thought of _not_ having him, when I heard the gunshot, and realized in that split second that I might not touch him or see him or make love with him or see him hold Joe, hold our child – fuck the fear, I wanted him, and if he'd asked me to go Amish and spend the rest of my life on a butter plantation, I'd have said yes, as long as he was going with me. Christ, I don't think I've ever wanted something so badly as I wanted him right then.

I think about if Carter had gotten the question out and what I'd have said. I think maybe I would have said yes, because I did love him, maybe not the right way, but enough to want it to last. I felt safe. Cared for. Wanted. It had been one hell of a long time since I'd felt that. But I can't see past that, getting so far as married. I don't think I'd have gone through with it. I think maybe I'd have run, left County, because I'm not real good at coping with the fallout. But he didn't ask, and Luka did, and I don't think that anyone could have gotten me down the aisle but him.

I think about what it would have been like if he'd never gotten that call, if we'd have gone ahead on the honeymoon, sealed the deal so to speak, had a whole lot of wild sex on the sand and in the sea and wherever else we pleased, and god knows we would have. But then what? I think maybe the alcoholic part of me would still be there, waiting to crack, because it's crystal clear to me now that there was a whole torrent of shit built up in me waiting to be let loose that maybe I wouldn't have dealt with if not for this. Not that it's resolved, not by a long shot, but I'm getting there.

Here's the thing, though, the thing nobody ever thinks about and that we tried to bury ourselves but never really did – Luka and I looked to everybody and to each other like we'd got past everything, dealt with it, filled the holes in each other, but underneath I think we'd just pushed it aside in favor of the novelty and the afterglow of being with each other, of having Joe. But of course it was easy that way, because the superficial problems, the tangible ones were at the forefront and we didn't have time to think about the rest. But then they'd come out once in awhile and instead of acknowledging them, it became this pattern where we could both push past it by convincing ourselves that we had what we needed, enough of it at least, to let it go.

And of course we didn't. I can see that now, and see the culmination of it for each of us. The point when we both should have seen it, bitten the bullet and admitted that, yes indeed, we were still at the mercy of our ghosts. Funny, I guess, that for both of us, it was a dream. For me, it was about three months after Joe was born, and god if it wasn't the worst thing I'd ever dreamed in my life. I'd dreamed that Joe was dead, that he'd just stopped breathing, and not just that, I'd watched him stop and not moved a muscle, not been able to, even when I could have done something. I remember scaring the shit out of Luka when I woke up, bolted out of bed crying and hyperventilating, and Joe had burst into tears when I ran in because I didn't realize I was yelling "no" over and over and woke him out of a nice little sleep and snatched him out of his crib, just rocking him over and over and holding him close and telling him I was sorry, so sorry. Of course Luka didn't know what the hell to think, just stared at me with his mouth hanging open until he got it, realized what was up, and he took Joe and settled him back in his crib and took me back to bed, holding me and whispering to me until I calmed down.

It wasn't too long after that it happened for him, too, woke me out of a dead sleep one night when he just started gasping, the most god-awful noise, and I swore he was having an asthma attack until I sat up and looked at him and realized he was doing CPR on the mattress. And I knew, of course, it wasn't the mattress, it was Jasna, and as soon as I touched him he started crying and telling me she was gone, over and over like I'd done with Joe, except he wasn't telling me, he was telling Danijela. He'd never called me by her name and it freaked me out, until I realized he was still asleep, but it still sent chills up my spine. When he finally woke up, he didn't want to talk about it, just curled up in my arms kissing my fingers until he moved his way up, and it wasn't romantic, it was just him needing to lose himself in me the way he had that night, that first night we'd made love, and I let him because, same as that night, all I wanted was to take it away.

I think maybe if we'd confronted it then, it would have been different. I wouldn't have wondered when the weeks went by without him if maybe he'd finally healed but the scab had healed over and closed me out. And I think maybe he'd have trusted both of us enough to ask me to come, to be with him in Croatia and let me into what he was feeling.

I don't think it's a blessing, being here, or anything, maybe if it had just been the drinking and not putting Joe in danger or the whole ordeal with Moretti or drinking at work, it would have been something we could get past, no problem. But I'm starting to get it, that the buildup of all of it was too much, and maybe with someone else, it wouldn't be so hard, but Luka, Luka has baggage, a lot of it, and this maybe tipped the scales. I'm beginning to think, too, that maybe this isn't all me, it's him, too, and maybe there's stuff he needs to work out, too. And maybe his anger and his hurt isn't just all about me, but it's easier for him to pin it on me, and it's not like I can really preach to him about misdirecting. And maybe what this is, my part here, is to take that, to accept that he needs to be angry and I've hurt him and he's carried my weight for so long that it's my turn to take it and shut up. Yeah, a lot of it – the anger and the hurt – is deserved; it's my fault, but not all of it. I'm starting to get that. And maybe if he'll let me, if he can stick it out and trust me again, he can get past that and let me be there while he sorts his shit out.

Look at me, right? All poetic and self-aware and grown up. I should feel proud, I guess, but I don't, I feel like shit, like pond scum, because what the hell is the point if I lose him? Well, Joe is the point, a lot of the point, at least, and yeah, I'll go through this and take it for him, but if I lose Luka, I know there'll be this part of me that won't just reckon with it and move on. You don't get past that, I don't think. Thirty-seven years to find the guy who finally makes you grow up and face your fears and actually fall in the kind of love where it's worth it to get hurt, and losing him – it's not just a guy, not just Luka, it's losing that part of myself that changed and grew with and because of him. And that just flat-out isn't reconcilable, not to me.

I sleep for maybe an hour, restless dreams about white dresses and rings and Pagan wedding rituals all interrupting me in five-minute intervals, and oh great, Tuesday is cleaning day. Hey, maybe I'll quit smoking today, just for fun, to see if I can really make this day suck. Set a record for sucking.

Bring it on, Tuesday.

* * *

I'm emptying the ashtrays when it happens. This chill, starting in my toes and making its way up like a jolt of electricity. And then – my name. "Abby."

He doesn't smile. I stand there, just in shock for a few seconds, and then set down the trash bin and go to him. He _lets_ me hug him, his arms sort of by his sides for a good minute while I just cling to him, and then this sort of tentative, sterile reciprocation. The little burst of elation and happiness that was there fades fast.

"What – when did you – " I'm showing off my language skills, here. "You didn't tell me."

"Yeah." Still no smile. "It was last-minute."

Whatever last-minute means to him, it's clearly not the sort of impulsive, romantic, declare-he'll-love-me-no-matter-what sort of thing out of the Hallmark Channel. I nod to a table, and he sits, across from me, and I get the feeling the table between us is still to close for him.

It aches, and I feel dread sliding its way over me, wrapping around and constricting like a pissed-off snake.

He's toying with this envelope, and I wonder if maybe that's all this will be, a letter, telling me whatever he's decided he can't say in person. That it's over. And the thought that he came all way just for that winds that snake a little tighter. He doesn't say anything and for a second I don't think he will. But – "There's some pictures when I brought Joe to the seaside." He hands over the envelope.

"You didn't bring him?" It's a lame question, of course he didn't. This isn't a family reunion, judging from the way things are going.

He shakes his head a little. "I only came for a day or two to take care of some things." He licks his lips, like he's not quite sure. I wonder what things are. A quick trip to tell me it's over, he doesn't love me anymore, or if he does, not enough to stick it out, maybe? There's an edge to him I don't like and the look – the look in his eyes is one I haven't seen in a long time. Hard, cold, distant. The sort of look he gave me that night. _I give up. I'm done. Carter can have you._ "And I thought it might be too hard."

"Probably, yeah." Fuck probably, it would have been, no question, but it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt not to be able to see him. For Luka to make that choice for me.

He doesn't say anything. I don't know what he's waiting for, maybe for me to get down on my knees and grovel, from the look in his eyes, but what am I supposed to do? Instead I ask him what things he has to take care of. May as well put it out there.

"Uh…" He leans forward, a little, and it's almost like he's spitting it at me, a little smug. "I quit. I'm not going to work at County again."

I can't even process that. No, no no no, because County, it's us, it's him and me, it's where we've built this whole thing up.

"Just after everything with my father…with you…I was thinking I need something else."

Something else? Or someone else? "Are you going to stop practicing medicine?"

"I don't know, um…maybe a different area."

I try to take this in, try not to react too much. He's obviously made this decision without me, and I don't know quite what to think, what to say, except to try not to get upset. I get upset and it's ludicrous, right? Because I'm the one who's done worse.

"It's like those halls are haunted to me. I mean, not exactly haunted…I just…I need a clean break."

"Yeah." Except no, please no, please don't mean me, too.

"So I gotta go."

Go. Go where? Away from me, I'm starting to get that impression. I can't say it though, can't ask. Instead – "So I'm done here in two weeks…and I didn't…how do you want to…do you want to come back here, or should I meet you and Joe in Croatia…" Please want me. Please want me to come there, or want to come back.

"We'll see." He's so nonchalant, I can't deal with this.

"What do you mean 'we'll see'?" I'm starting to get a little pissed, because I can tell he's trying to hurt me and whatever I did, I never wanted to hurt him.

He looks at me with that look again, and I hear it over and over, him telling me I'm not that pretty, not that special. Not worth the effort. "Right now it feels good for Joe and me to be there with my family." His family. Me excluded from that category. "I think he's happy…me too."

I can feel tears starting to creep up and I try to keep them back but it's a struggle, and god Luka, please just be trying to hurt me and don't mean that.

"You know, we'll see where we are when you're done here, you know, how I feel."

"You know, Luka – "

"Hey," he cuts me off, "and I also hope you'll let me know when…when you want to tell me the truth."

"About…what?" I actually don't think about it, because my head is spinning. He eyes me, well, glares a little actually. Aha. Great. That again.

We sit in silence a little and then it just comes out, because now I can't deal with it, deal with him coming here just to hurt me and give me an ultimatum, because Jesus fucking Christ, in six months he couldn't come back once to see me, to see his son, and you know what, I told him I'd come there, and he didn't ask me, not once, and maybe I should have asked again, but it was hard to know, you know, if he even wanted me there. And then he comes back like I'm supposed to have just been on hold, not been hurt, and yes, I get it, his father was dying, but it wasn't flipping a switch, it wasn't like I could give more than I was already. I was working my ass off, finishing a residency, trying to raise a child alone, a child he'd fucking _promised_ me we'd raise together. We'd do it together, but no, we weren't, and every week that went by, ever time he made it sound like my asking when he was coming home was an imposition and not me wanting him, I got the feeling that maybe this was it and I'd have to do this alone and it was overwhelming. And so it just comes out. "I get that you think I'm doing this to hurt you, Luka, but I'm not and maybe you can't understand where I'm coming from, but I'm trying here, I am, and it's not fucking easy, okay?"

"You think this is easy for me?"

"No, Luka, I don't, and I'm sorry. You have no idea how sorry. I _hate_ that I hurt you, I do, but it's not me sitting here being the bitch you're making me out to be, okay? I'm trying to do the right thing."

"How is this the right thing, Abby? How is this the right thing to keep this from me while I torture myself over whatever it is?"

"Because it is, okay? You don't get that, and Jesus, Luka, I'm so, so sorry, but…" And it comes out before I can bite it back. "You act like I did this all by myself, like you didn't have any part in it, and I'm not blaming you for my actions, but the whole time, I was alone, wondering if you even _wanted_ to come back, and fuck – I tried to understand that it was too much to come back, and then here you are on a goddamned day trip just to tell me – what? That you quit your job without so much as a word, my son is happy without me, and you don't know if you even want to see me. Great, Luka, I get it. You want to hurt me, and maybe I deserve that, but don't for a second think I'm not trying."

He sits and just looks at me, and I can't read his expression. And then he gets up. "I can't do this."

"No shit." I'm crying now, it was just a little at first, but now I'm about losing it. "I love you Luka. But Christ, don't give up on me."

He looks at me a minute, like he wants to say something, maybe tell me he won't, maybe tell me he already has. And then he's gone, doesn't say a word, just walks away.

And it's almost funny, because he's the one person I didn't think would.


	9. Where'd You Crash and Burn?

**Author's Note:** Back Stateside after four months, so maybe, _maybe,_ I'll update more often. Possibly. Reviews might encourage me to do so...just saying. For my loyal reviewers, you rock. You know who you are. Major props. And finally, before we get back to our regularly scheduled fanfiction, some observant readers may have noticed that the chapter titles are vaguely familiar. Well, there's a reason - the fic has it's own playlist to which I write, and from which I often get ideas. The chapter titles draw from the songs which I feel best encompass the mood or theme of that particular update. As a music lover, I'm happy to tell you who sings them, so that you can go buy them (not happy to burn you music...I support my muses). Oh, and - I should have said this awhile ago, but the first chapter title, "Mercy" - _not_ the Duffy version, although I adore Duffy minus the horrific flashbacks of Moodswing Sam and the Fungus Beard getting it on - is by Alanis Morissette, and was originally played in "300 Patients" as Abby drove away, but was replaced with generic sad music before air. Which is good, since my brain has a glee tolerance, and ER plus Alanis causes me to hyperventilate.

* * *

**"Where'd You Crash and Burn?"**

"I want to go to my room."

"Abby, you know the rules –"

"Yes, I know the goddamned rules, but I'm telling you I want to go to my room. Now."

"I can't let you do that." Red Lapel, or Dianne as she prefers, is blocking my way up the stairs. "If you want to take some space from the group –"

"I want to take some space in my fucking room like a normal fucking adult, okay?"

"I'm sorry, Abby, but nine to five, you're not a normal adult and you have to follow the rules like everyone else."

I have half a mind to take her, but she's not a lightweight, this lady. "Please, I need to go to my room."

"Like I said. If you want to take some space, the meditation room is available."

The meditation room is a room chock full of pillows, with unusually soft walls and is very clearly meant for very angry people who want to throw shit and scream, which is why it's also sound-proof. I let out a little howl and stalk into the medi-fucking-tation room, slam the door, and pick up a nice duck-shaped pillow to start beating repeatedly against the wall, pretending it's Dianne.

After a good ten minutes of avian abuse I drop the damn thing and curl up in a squishy corner and just cry.

* * *

"Abby." I can hear Marla knocking on the door, which isn't locked, so at least she's being polite. "Can I come in?"

"No."

"Thanks." She pushes in and I don't know if she heard me or not, but knowing Marla, it doesn't matter. From the corner of my eye, I can see Jenna follow her in, and then Cynthia, and then Thalia the Goth Girl, who gave up her real name after sustained wheedling from Marla. It suits her better than Desdemona.

She and the others settle themselves into beanbag chairs, and Marla clears her throat loudly. "So."

"Yeah."

"Am I allowed to say he's more attractive in person?"

I try to muster a glare and it fails pitifully, so I shrug. "Whatever."

"Well…he's more attractive in person."

"Thanks for that."

"You know my propensity for honesty." Marla sighs and I can see her looking around to the others for help. Cynthia's inspecting her fingernails, Jenna's focused on looking for split ends, and Thalia's got the pen that permanently lives in her hair out and is doodling on her shoe. "Christ, I brought these guys for support, but I guess it's a one man show."

"We just don't know what to say," Jenna murmurs.

"Other than that we've probably all been there or somewhere like it and it sucks. And we're all here for you, babe." Cynthia, who's next to me, puts an arm around my shoulders, very motherly. "If you want to tell us about it, we're all ears. And if not – "

"I don't want to tell you about it, so what's the alternative?"

"Well, we were going to hold Demoniad here –"

"Desdemona!"

" – down and paint her nails hot pink. And then maybe force her into something frilly."

"That's just mean." Thalia narrows her eyes at Marla, and then glances back to me. "Men suck, Abby."

"She's only saying that because she's a virgin."

"Marla!" Cynthia is trying not to laugh at Jenna's outrage, and I almost smile. "That wasn't called for."

"Oh, come on. I'm trying to cheer Abby up."

"For your information, asshole, I'm not a virgin. Or a lesbian, in case that was your next guess."

"Sleeping with a vampire –"

"I do not sleep with vampires!"

I can't help but think of the Halloween before last, Joe's first Halloween. Luka's too, as far as trick-or-treating goes, and he was about as excited as the kids on the block. Very conveniently scheduled both of us to have the night off, and I don't know if he and Maggie were in cahoots or something, but she'd sent a handmade costume for Joe – infant-sized scrubs and a little felt stethoscope – so we got him all dressed up, and Luka decided that we both had to dress up, too. Of course, he'd found that old nurse's costume from a few years ago in a box of my things, and about fell over himself with excitement, and said that it would be terribly unfair to make Joe trick-or-treat as a doctor with out a nurse to assist. Right. But we made a deal, see, that if I went as a nurse, and the words "naughty" and "Nazi" didn't leave the confines of the apartment, I got to pick his costume for him.

He didn't think it was too funny – something about stereotyping – but he perked up just a bit when I told him he could keep the fangs for later.

"Honestly, Marla, shut up." Cynthia rolls her eyes. "Look. Gothika is half-right. Men do suck. Unfortunately, in ninety percent of cases, it's not the right kind of sucking."

"Luka doesn't suck. Not like that." I eye Marla. "And I'm not going to discuss the other sort, so shut up."

She holds up her hands defensively. "I didn't say a word."

"I just…I love him. And I'm lucky to have him. And…I don't know what I have to do for us to get past this."

"Listen." Cynthia shifts around so she's facing me. "All of us have managed to hurt people when we're using. Parents, kids, husbands – shit, I accidentally killed a goldfish once when I was doped up and I still have nightmares about the poor thing. I mean, I don't have to explain it, because you know, and I know, and so do they." She indicates the others, who give varying degrees of affirmation. "Thing is, it does matter how much, and how often, because it's all relative to how long it takes him to trust you again. But if you can hang on and work on it and prove that he can trust you again –"

"It's not that simple though." I cut her off. "I don't know if it's worth the risk to him."

"It should be." Jenna finally pipes up. "I mean, for better or for worse sort of encompasses all varieties of sins. So long as you love each other and you can learn from your mistakes…"

"Yeah. Just look at Hillary and Bill," Thalia deadpans.

I want to keep sulking. I really do. And I still feel like total shit, but I can't help it, just break into giggles, along with Marla and Cynthia, and Jenna joins in a minute later.

"What? It's a beautiful love story."

"Ah, yes. One that proves that no matter how much of a dickhead you are, your partner will still stand by you in order to leverage herself to political office."

"Oh, you didn't just go there." Cynthia glares at Marla. "Because I will take you down."

"Nepotism, baby. Pure and simple."

"You have three seconds to take it back or I will kick your skinny, sociopathic little–" She doesn't finish before the pillow hits her, and within seconds, Marla is running for the door, Cynthia behind her with a pillow in each hand. Jenna, Thalia, and I sort of sit in silence for a moment before the shrieking from down the hall commands their attention. They both look at me for a second, like they're afraid to leave me, and so I give them a little smile and they head off to watch the show.

It's kind of stupid, when you think about it, having to land yourself in rehab just to find a group of people who'll be there when you need it. And maybe it's my own fault, because it does take something this out of the ordinary, I guess, for me to open myself up to the point where I'm even willing to accept that. But seriously, I can't imagine being out there in the real world and having that sort of unconditional support. Neela and I have our moments, and a few years ago, I had some with Susan and with Jing-Mei, but it wasn't the sort of bare-your-soul friendship with any of them where I'd call one of them up in the middle of the night because…well, because I was in rehab and scared shitless of losing my husband. Or the middle of the day, even.

The closest thing I've had to a friend like that – at least since college – was Carter, and that started on the fast tract to nowhere the minute he decided he wanted to be more than friends. And it's not as though it was one-sided, because I guess to some degree he was like a storage space for all the things I wanted to say and feel for Luka but couldn't. Luka and I had the chemistry but not the trust, and Carter, I trusted, so there was that. And boy, that worked out well, now didn't it? That's the thing I think makes Luka and what we have now so precious, or one of them. I've never had it both ways, both chemistry and trust, and certainly not love and trust, and even though clearly the trust wasn't all there, it was a start. And about ten times the level of any trust I'd put in anyone before him, including Janet.

So maybe that's another thing to work on, the trust. I make a mental note to work on that, because, you know, it's like I just have to put a sticky note on the fridge to remember, oh, I should do that from now on. Although maybe I should. Maybe pin one to my shirt, like when I was six and the teacher would pin a note to my coat asking my mother to please pack me a proper lunch or would I please bring my snow boots when it was winter or whatever else. So then everyone can just know in advance that I don't trust them and either cut the niceties and screw me over or…or what?

Give me three years of reason to trust them and see if that'll do?

Right.

I have to wonder, though, if he trusts me. If that was part of why he never let me in, because really, even though he let the vulnerability show, he never opened up, never shared more than slivers of what it was that woke him up at night screaming. Maybe it was that he didn't want to relive it, and that I can handle, but what if it wasn't? What if it's that he doesn't trust me to accept him, or to be strong enough to hear it, or to stick around even when Pandora's box is open? And I have to think if I've given him reason to believe he can. Haven't I listened and held him at night? Haven't I stood by him even when I could barely recognize him through all the anger? Haven't I staked enough on him, on us?

He knew, when I told him I was pregnant, that I was scared out of my mind. That I didn't ever once think about it as a real possibility. That it would take a phenomenal leap of faith to have a child with him. And I did. I told him I wanted it, and that was the truth, but to let myself want that and want that with him – Jesus, that was the biggest risk I've ever taken, the most terrifying thing I've ever done.

And now I get it, cuddled up with this damned stuffed duck and staring at padded walls, contemplating my life in a rehab facility while my husband is walking away and I don't know if he's coming back, what it is that keeps me from telling him not just the truth about my drinking, but all the dark, scary shit bottled up inside me. It's that as much as I trust Luka, I don't trust him to love me when it's all said and done, because knowing all of what I do about myself, I sure as hell don't love me, so why would he?

And the real kicker, the real joke of it all, is that now that things have been said and things have been done, it looks like I was right. He saw the thing inside, my very own Dr. Jekyll, and it was too much.


	10. Dream About Flying

**Author's Note: **A couple of notes for this chapter...first, I can't remember if Niko's wife's name was actually mentioned on this show or if I just blend CaliforniaGirl2's fics with canon in my head, but I'm too lazy to go and rewatch season fourteen to be sure. As such, I went with the name CG2 used. Second, I was alerted to a deleted scene from "Owner of a Broken Heart" and while it was technically deleted, I wanted to incorporate it. It was obviously supposed to occur on the same day as the original visit from Luka to rehab, but since I've already passed that in my fic, bear with me and pretend that Abby was wearing different clothes in the deleted scene (I'm thinking jeans, flats, and the grey-and-white shirt we saw in "The Test" - oh, and her hair is down, because I prefer it that way). Finally, I'd like to note that I've read a grand total of five pages of the Bible, and it was all from Genesis, so I had to Wikipedia St. Christopher. Normally I hate Wikipedia, but I figured someone would have to be pretty stupid to mess up an entry on the Bible. Because, you know, it's never been misinterpreted or anything.

* * *

**"Dream About Flying"**

"_Psst. Luka." I whisper into the dark, trying to figure out where I am. I can feel him there next to me, but I can't for the life of me see him._

"_Shh." It's his voice; somewhere close but disconnected at the same time._

"_Don't 'shh' me."_

"_Shh!" It hisses all around me. "You can't make any noise."_

"_What? Why not?" I'm whispering, too._

"_He'll hear you. Now, shh!"_

"_Who?" I feel around for him, and my hand knocks into something warm and solid, but it's hard to feel or hold onto anything, like my hand's been shot up with Novocain. "I can't find your hand."_

"_It's right there."_

"_Where?" I keep feeling around for him, but I can't seem to get a grip on him._

"_There. See, now I'm holding yours." Sure enough, there's a warm sort of feeling in my hand, a familiarity, so I know he's telling the truth, but it's like dead weight._

"_Who are we hiding from?"_

"_From…him." He says the word like it's poisoned._

"_But…" I try to work out the logic but it's not processing, so instead I open my mouth to call out, to ask who's here, but he stops me._

"_Shh, Abby." My lips tingle and now he's doing it, like he always does when his words fail to silence me, he's kissing me quiet._

"_I want to know who it is," I mumble into his mouth._

"_No, you don't." This is getting sort of freaky. Luka winds his arms tighter around me and it's uncomfortable it's so tight, but I stay put and let him hold me. "Just stay quiet. Pretend you're asleep."_

"_Okay." I put my head on his shoulder and close my eyes and try to breathe evenly and slowly. From somewhere, there's a light, and I want to look, but Luka's arms are so tight around me that I can't. Instead, I breathe him in, my nose right at the nape of his neck. He smells like licorice, the black kind, and though I was never one for black licorice, it smells good on him._

"_Whatever you do, Abby –" But he doesn't finish, because there's this noise, this thudding. Footsteps, really loud ones, like they're coming from right inside my ears or something, and then light, spilling forward and there are arms pulling me, grabbing me, from Luka's arms. _

"_Hello, Abby." Jesus. Oh, Jesus, not him. Not Brian. His eyes are cold and he's got me in his grip, his fingers digging into my flesh. The hand is still over my mouth and I try to make a sound, but he just laughs and shakes his head. "Come on, Abby. He's not here to protect you."_

_If the hand isn't Luka…Brian laughs again, shaking his head, and the hand comes off my face. "Who are you? Where's Luka?"_

"_Luka went home. He took Joe and he went home."_

"_He…he was just here."_

"_No. You wanted him to be here. You wanted him to hold you, to touch you…you closed your eyes and you pretended it was him, but it wasn't him, was it, Abby?"_

"_I – he – I kissed him. It was him!"_

"_No," the voice repeats. "You went looking for someone to protect you, and when you couldn't find him, you found me instead, now didn't you?"_

_No. No, no, no._

"_Come on, let's get out of here. You're safe with me."_

"_No. No, I…"_

_Moretti smiles. "Come on, honey. Let me take you home."

* * *

_

A pair of hands are shaking me, and I'm struggling with them, shouting something – I don't know what – and it isn't until Marla has said it five or six times that I hear her.

"It's just a dream, Abby. It's just a nightmare. Calm down."

"No," I breathe. "No, I didn't…I couldn't…"

"Abby, look at me." I obey, look right into those eyes of hers that have some freakish magical power, and she holds my gaze steady. "It was a dream. You're in rehab. No one is going to hurt you."

I just shake my head, dripping snot and tears all over my tee shirt – Luka's tee shirt – and my sheets in the process.

"Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay. Push over, then."

I scoot over without a protest and she gets in next to me, and cramped as it is with the both of us in a twin cot, I feel better. She squeezes an arm around my shoulders. "Close your eyes."

"I can't. I don't want to sleep."

"You don't have to. Just close 'em. I'm going to do the thing I do with my kids when they have nightmares."

"Don't breastfeed me."

"Ha-ha. Shut up and close your eyes." I do, and she wriggles around next to me until she seems comfortable. "Okay. Picture a boat. Just a nice, simple boat. A canoe, maybe. Or a rowboat."

"Okay."

"Don't talk. It ruins the effect," she huffs. "The boat is sturdy. It's made of the strongest materials you can think of."

"Like the Titanic."

"Oh for Christ's sake. It's a magic fucking boat, okay? It can't sink." She pauses, and I try to picture it, the image sort of half-formed in my mind, not really taking shape. "Now imagine yourself in the boat…it's quiet, peaceful, the sun is warm on your body, and the water is nice and calm."

I've got a rough image, but it's starting to get there. I think it's more of a floating plank and it might be overcast, but it's a start, right?

"You're floating in the boat, nice and slow, and you're floating towards the greenest island you've ever seen. The water is so blue, and the sun is gold, and the island, it's so green you can't believe it."

"Miracle Grow."

She ignores me and keeps going. "You see someone on the island. They're waving to you and smiling. They're welcoming you…and you feel so happy and grateful to be there, to be welcomed."

My boat, it's gliding towards the island, and Luka's there, holding Joe. And smiling, welcoming me home…

* * *

_Luka smiles, like the sun and the moon themselves got together and hatched a plan to light up his face. "I missed you."_

"_I missed you, too. So much."_

"_We're all here, now. You, me, and Joe."_

"_Just us?"_

"_Just us. Nobody else."_

"_I'm glad."_

_He takes my hand, the other holding Joe. "Me too, Abby."

* * *

_

"I hear you had a rough day yesterday."

"You could call it that."

"Abby, I want you to know that the staff and I were very impressed with how you handled it. I'm not sure you realize how risky that sort of situation can be to someone in such a precarious state of recovery."

"I'm not sure you got the whole story, then. I might have said some things to Dianne. And called a couple people…names." Some of which I got pretty creative on, if I do say so myself.

"In a case like that, honestly, I'd be worried if you hadn't. We're not asking you to shed your emotions, or cease every slightly problematic behavior. If you want to swear and yell, go ahead, so long as you don't drink or put anyone, including yourself, in harm's way."

"You're giving me license to curse out the staff?"

Celia smiles. "Don't make it a habit or anything. I'm just saying that it's not the worst thing in the world you can do."

"Trust me. I thought about doing worse."

"And what kept you from doing it?"

"Joe." I flash the envelope from Luka at her. "The pictures Luka brought…I looked at them, and I just…whatever happens, he's the most important thing in the world. And I want to be a good mother to him. I want him to grow up knowing he can depend on me, that I'll be there."

Her smile returns. "I'm glad you said that."

"Why?"

She takes something from her desk and extends it to me. "You've been doing quite well over the past two weeks. We've talked about a lot of really difficult things, and you've been working very hard. I see that. The staff sees it. And we see that you're very committed to changing, Abby."

"I am." I glance at the paper she's handed me. "I don't get it."

"It's a program for children whose parents are mentally ill, incarcerated, or addicted."

"I think I'm a little old for it."

There's a twitch of a smile, but it fades. "Saturday is our monthly service day, for those patients we feel are trustworthy enough to be in the community for a day. It's both about giving back and about adjusting to normal life, without the restrictions of the center. I think you could benefit a lot from participating in this program."

"I see."

"I'm not mandating this. There are other opportunities – a soup kitchen, cleaning up the local park, an animal shelter, and…well…"

"What?"

"The March of Dimes."

"Oh, yeah. Fuck no."

"That's what I figured." She clears her throat and kicks one of her absolutely incredible black patent heels that I wish to god I could either pull off or afford under her desk. "I think this is the perfect opportunity, though."

"Yeah, I guess. Sure you didn't make it up just to mess with me?"

"I'm sure. We've been working with them for two years now."

"Too bad they weren't around in my day."

"Well, if they were, I'd have about half the number of clients I do now." She catches my eye. "And I wouldn't be able to afford those shoes."

"Yeah, and _that_ would be a travesty."

* * *

"Abby?" Alice looks like she's a little tentative to approach me. Can't blame her after the bitch session she got yesterday. "You have a visitor."

I have a what now? After the way Luka left yesterday, I'm not exactly thinking he's here for round two. And I have absolutely no idea who else it could be. Maybe it's Santa. Coming to tell me about all the coal I'll be getting in a few weeks. "Um…okay. Can I – ?"

"Go." Dianne gives me a tight little smile, clearly not happy to relent but given that the group wouldn't be interrupted if it wasn't okay in the first place, I doubt she's got a choice.

I follow Alice down the hallway toward the living area, and low and behold, there he is, waiting.

"Luka."

"Hi." He doesn't smile, but he doesn't frown, either. "I…er…I wanted to come by before I left."

I nod like a total idiot and we sit down, and I notice he's wearing the same clothes as yesterday. Where did he even sleep? At the apartment? I don't even know how he got here, when I think about it. A taxi, maybe, unless he did stay at the apartment, and I suppose he has every right to, so maybe he got his car and drove here? He's staring at his hands and he lets out a little sigh. "Abby, I…I'm sorry. For yesterday."

"You don't have to apologize, Luka. You have every right to be upset."

"I don't have the right to hurt you, though. Not on purpose. And…I think maybe I did."

I nod a little. "I understand why you did."

"I don't think you do."

"Luka –"

"I'm scared, Abby." He's still not looking at me, and his voice comes out low and dull. "I'm scared that…I finally found something, someone who I can be with, and now…"

"Luka –"

"Don't." I stop and let him keep going, just happy that he's talking, finally. "I don't know if I can do this again."

"Again?"

He nods, this time, and for a second he looks up at me, and his eyes are so wide, so pleading, like a little boy, and for a second I wonder if he's anywhere near as strong as I imagine him to be. "I don't want to lose my family again."

"You won't." I reach across for his hand, and he just lets me hold it a minute before he turns his over and squeezes my fingers between his. "I want to make this work. I want to get better and be there for you and for Joe."

He lets my hand go and folds his together on the table, quiet again. Meanwhile I'm just staring at the floor and trying like hell not to burst into tears. "When we got married, I gave you my mother's pearls." He digs in his pocket a minute and pulls out a chain. "And now I'm giving you my father's medal." He holds it out to me, and I reach out a hand. "Saint Christopher. He watches over all travelers."

Catholic school, while not something I harbor fond memories of, required me to memorize my saints. I know the stories of St. Christopher a lot better than is really necessary for any one person – for some reason, his story was one of the few I actually remembered past the exams. One of the stories goes that he was in charge of helping people cross a river, and one day, he had to carry a small child across. While he was carrying the child, the river started to swell and the child became extraordinarily heavy. Well, St. Chris barely made it, and when he got to the other side, he told the child that he didn't think the whole world would have been as heavy, to which the child replied that not only was he carrying the whole world on his shoulders, but the one who made it – he'd actually been carrying Jesus.

I'm not big into the Bible, especially when it's taken literally, but it's got some nice metaphors in it. I have to wonder if this is Luka's way of telling me he knows how hard this is for me. I mean, it's not as though he doesn't know the story, too. He can quote the damn thing in Croatian and English, which I don't find a particularly appealing trait, but he can, and so I doubt very much that the meaning is lost on him.

"Get better." He still doesn't smile.

I close the medal in my hand and feel oddly like I'm back at morning prayers clutching my rosary in one hand and trying to conceal my Walkman with the other. "I will."

And I mean, that, too. Here with him, I can see very clearly what I working toward.

He finally cracks the smallest of smiles. "I know you will. You…you're stronger than you think."

"I have a lot to work for."

He nods, almost to himself. "Joe misses you. He asks about you every day."

Well that about there breaks my heart, not that I'm not glad he still remembers me. "It feels like I haven't seen him in years."

"I know the feeling." He smiles a little more. "The first week or so, he would go around the house, looking for you. Opening closets, cabinets, like he was playing hide-and-seek."

Knife me in the heart. Go ahead, really.

"He's doing better."

That doesn't make me any happier. "Yeah?"

"Well…sort of. He still asks for you. In the morning, especially. And when he's upset."

"He knows you're not as much of a sucker."

He laughs a little. "He figured out that Nata and Ana will give him anything he wants if he looks sad. The other morning I think he actually…what do you call it…toyed them?"

"Played them."

"Yes. He went into the kitchen and opened up the drawer, and put his head in and called your name, like you might be in there. And you knew from his face he knew you weren't."

"Uh-oh."

"So Nata picked him right up and cuddled him and gave him some cake."

"He must have been happy."

Luka grins. "He can't get enough cake. Asks Ana for it every day, and she always makes it."

"I'm going to have to learn to cook."

"Maybe she can teach you how." He looks me in the eye for the first time. "When you come to Croatia."

I'm sort of mute for a minute, just processing that. "You want me to come?"

He nods. "Yes. After…after you're done here."

"Then I will. And I'll learn to make cake."


	11. Cradlesong

**"Cradlesong"**

I wake up around three in the morning that Saturday needing to pee as badly as I used to when I was pregnant and Joe was playing kick-the-bladder and damn near cry while the night nurse fumbles with the lock. And of course, I can't go back to sleep after that, despite my best efforts, and end up surrendering an hour later and curling up with a book I can't really focus on in the lounge area while the nurse keeps a very skeptical-looking eye on me.

I contemplate calling Luka, but it's eleven there and Joe is probably napping. Apparently he's been waking up at five in the morning and crashing mid-morning, and then running around like a madman all afternoon. I can't really decide whether I'm annoyed that Luka broke the nice little schedule he'd gotten accustomed to or a tiny bit amused that he's taking advantage of his father's complete inability to discipline him. I mean, sure, he was gone for so long that he has to spoil Joe a bit, but seriously, from what I gather, Joe is knee-deep in cake and pretty much sets the schedule for the household.

I'm really not looking forward to playing the bad cop, and I swear to god as soon as I have him in my arms again I'll probably acquiesce to whatever he wants, no questions asked.

I remember when Eric was little, and I was pretty much his caretaker, I'd pretend sometimes that I was his mother. I despised Maggie for the fact that no matter what she did, he would always look at her with stars in his eyes, and I'd become chopped liver the second she walked in. What got me through the times she disappeared was the joy at having Eric all to myself, playing the mother figure, not having to vie for his affections. He was always clingy when she left, always crawling into my bed with me at night and trotting after me wherever I went. I relished that; he was the only thing constant, and I took a certain pride in the fact that I was responsible for something so precious as my very own baby brother.

I think I was twelve or thirteen when I swore to myself I'd never have a baby of my own. Eddie had stopped coming around altogether and Maggie was exponentially more unstable, and Eric had started crying more and more when she left. I felt inadequate. Broken homes seemed an inevitable consequence of being a Wyczenski, and I had heard somewhere that kids whose parents were divorced were more likely to be divorced themselves. That was not going to be me. I was not going to be Maggie, no matter what, and the one thing I could control was never giving myself the chance. There was always this little tug of want for a baby of my own, someone to look at me, starry eyed, the way Eric did Maggie, but I would _never_ be a parent because I might turn into my mother.

Now, of course, I can't imagine a life where I didn't have Joe. Well, I can, but it's pretty fucking bleak.

I wish sometimes that we had the chance to have another. To look at Luka and tell him we were having a baby and not have to be so terrified and uncertain. To enjoy the pregnancy, experience labor, hold my newborn baby. I didn't hold Joe until he was two weeks old, and then, only long enough for the staff to change his bedding. I threw up afterward, because I was convinced it would be my only chance. Luka had to hold him the next time because I couldn't stop shaking. I feel like we were robbed of something in that, not that I've ever told him because the last thing he needs is to be reminded that he was robbed of so many moments with his children. All of them.

I feel like I cheated him out of something by not being able to give him another. He said one was enough, but it's not as though he was going to say, no, I'd really like another, actually. Can you look into a uterine transplant? I imagine him with Jasna and think what it would be like for him to have a daughter. For us to have a daughter. I think of him decked out in tea party attire, watching a little girl in satin ballet slippers try to pirouette, worry his head off when she doesn't come home at curfew and then go after her first boyfriend and scare the piss out of him so that he'll never try to so much as hold her hand. And once in awhile I think about what it would be like for me. When I was pregnant, he told me that any little girl would be lucky to have me as a mother, and that if she was half as pretty he'd buy hounds to keep the boys at bay. I think to some degree he was working the flattery, but it stuck with me, that he had that confidence.

I never say anything to him, though. I can't. I know we could still adopt, find a surrogate, whatever, if we wanted another, but I can't even think about it myself let alone ask him if it's something he wants. Because if it is, I'll feel like I've let him down, and if it's not, I'll feel as if all the nice things he said were a lie.

I'm good at self-sabotage like that.

I end up watching reruns of "The Fresh Prince" and "Roseanne" with the night nurse until everyone gets up and starts milling around, at which point she's busy unlocking doors and handing over shower supplies, and I get the remote to myself and flip to CNN for the sole purpose of watching Anderson Cooper purse his lips and eye the camera seductively.

Hey, I may be hopelessly in love with a phenomenally sexy man, but I've still got a pulse.

* * *

I give Janet a call after breakfast, hoping to catch her at a quiet moment. She answers sounding thoroughly pissed. "So help me, Lucien, I –"

"Uh, Janet?"

"Abby! I'm sorry, I thought you were Dr. Dubenko, calling to argue some more over something he knows jack about."

"Ah. Sorry, it's just me."

I can hear her laugh a little, and her tone is much more amiable. "Trust me, I'm glad it's you and not him. I swear, though, the men around here…they must have some underground club to coordinate being pigheaded."

"I think it might be an X-linked trait. There's some pretty compelling evidence."

"I don't doubt it. How are you doing? I haven't heard from you in a few days."

"Okay." I don't really feel like explaining the shitstorm that went through this week. I know, I know, I'm supposed to be honest and open with my sponsor, but it's not an avoidance thing, just an absolute emotional exhaustion thing. And a general exhaustion thing, actually. I'm starting to miss the constant access to the Roach Coach. "Missing Joe like crazy."

"I bet." Her voice softens. "It's good, though. It always helped me get through the rough days."

I finger the medallion hanging around my neck and smile a little without intending to. "Yeah. It's strange, though."

"What is?"

"Having members of my family who I actually want to be around."

"Wait until he's a teenager. You'll be eating your words."

"I'd like to think he'll be one of the good ones." And that he won't drink. Please god, let Joe never drink.

"We all hope that. It's why women continue getting pregnant and why I'm still employed. If they could see what pains they turn into, the human race would die out pretty quickly."

I try to picture Joe as a teenager, a smaller version of Luka, maybe his hair a little lighter, his eyes a little darker. The girls will be all over him. Great. "Well I guess a little self-delusion is good, then." She huffs a vague agreement and I try not to laugh. "So…will they be with you for Christmas?"

"No. Matt and _CeeCee_ will be at their father's."

"CeeCee?"

"Claire apparently decided that she needed a cooler name. I'm trying to humor her."

"I see."

"I think it's punishment for refusing to get her a cat for Christmas."

I make an involuntary face. "I don't get the appeal of a mobile allergy factory."

"Neither do I, which is why she asked her father, who agreed, the bastard."

"Oh god. Revenge?"

"I'm getting Matt this video game he's been after that makes an inordinate amount of noise, under the condition that he keep it at his father's."

"That's low. I love it."

She chuckles. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

Her voice changes from congenial to sponsor mode. Crap. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

"Oh, I'm not having one this year."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, the whole merry rehab thing doesn't work for me. I'm boycotting."

"I somehow doubt you can ignore it entirely, Abby. And I don't think you should, either."

"Janet –"

"How about I come visit you? I don't have anything to do, and sitting at home isn't very appealing."

"You don't want to spend Christmas in rehab."

"I'm not spending it in rehab. I'm spending it with a friend."

"Isn't it, like…violating the sponsor-sponsee boundary or something?" Okay, even I know that's bullshit, but it feels obscenely needy to have my sponsor keep me company in rehab while I mope about not spending Christmas with my son and husband.

"I hate to tell you this, but that boundary was crossed around the time I was elbow-deep in your uterus."

"Point taken."

"What do you want me to bring?"

I consider briefly, but really, is there any other option? "Chinese. General Gau's. Or Tso's. Whatever General has the deep-fried, battered, gooey chicken. Please."

"You got it."

* * *

The Rehab-Mobile heads out shortly after lunch for the all-important Service Day, and I stare out the window silently praying it doesn't turn out to be too terribly awkward. I mean, I'm assuming the kids won't actually know why we're all there other than the goodness of our hearts. But really, what is it they tell them? The kids have to find it a little strange that a bunch of unkempt adults drop by for a couple of hours of playtime every now and then. But maybe they don't care. I'm pretty sure that when I was nine or ten, I'd have been just fine with some stranger showing up and announcing they were there for the sole purpose of entertaining me. Hell, I'd have probably asked them to take me home with them.

Then again, maybe not. For all of Maggie's flaws, I always felt a compelling sense of loyalty towards her. I guess that's how mothers are. They can do a thousand and one things wrong, but at the end of the day you still can't walk away. Maybe it's the biological factor, maybe not.

I silently pray to whatever powers are out there that Joe never has to love me solely out of loyalty. I guess Janet's right – it's a good motivating factor.

I stop recognizing street signs after about twenty minutes and doze off in my seat. I wake up with a cold left side of my head from being pressed against the glass and Cynthia prodding me awake. "We're here."

"Great."

The building definitely isn't the Ritz, but I have to put it slightly above County in terms of aesthetics. Which isn't really hard, come to think of it. Apparently it's some sort of community center. A woman who looks like she could be the poster girl for the PTA greets us, clapping her hands together like we've just made her day complete. Give me a fucking break, lady, I think, but don't say as that would probably not serve anyone well. Instead I half-listen as she explains the rules, very complex ones, like not groping the kids or discussing drugs with them. Well, thanks for that, really, because I'd been planning to deal crack to some eight-year-olds. Eventually we're led into a room that looks suspiciously like the one we have group sessions in and are given name tags and markers. I briefly consider writing "Mrs. Croatian Sensation" but think better of it and scribble "Abby" in what I can only hope is legible print. Doctor's handwriting and all.

Apparently we've all been paired up with a kid based on "compatible personalities," which I assume means they've tracked down a kid with an absent father and a lunatic mother special for me. PTA Lady comes up to me absolutely beaming and announces I've been paired with a girl named Gabby who is supposed to be very precocious and shy around those she isn't familiar with.

Hah. Gabby and Abby. So maybe that's how they chose.

The kids are brought in and a girl who can't be any older than five or six is prodded in my direction, clearly against her will. Can't say I blame her. She's cute, actually, brown hair in braids, little tortoise-shell glasses, striped tights that make her legs look a little bit like candy canes. I squat down and try to manage a smile that isn't totally creepy. "Hi. I'm Abby."

"Hi," she whispers, so soft I'm not even all that sure she said it.

"I like your tights. They're very Christmas-y."

"We don't celebrate Christmas," she intones. "We're Jewish."

"Oh. Do you celebrate Chanukah, then?" She kind of tilts her head in an incline and then lets it fall back. This is going to be tougher than I thought. Figures they'd give me a difficult kid. "My friend Jerry celebrates Chanukah, too. Sometimes he makes dreidel cookies."

"My mom says cookies are bad for you." Her voice is incrementally less mute.

"Hmm. Well, if you eat a lot of them, they can be. But one or two now and then are okay."

"Oh." She stares at her shoes.

I look around and spot some markers on a table, where Cynthia and a girl with flaming red hair to put Weaver to shame are stockpiling craft supplies. "Do you like to color?"

"Sometimes." She frowns even more. "I don't like to color with markers. They turn my fingers colors and then I have to wash them a lot."

"How about with crayons?"

"I guess." She picks at a loose thread on her shirt. "But we have to put down newspapers so it's not a mess."

I'm getting a clear signal that her mother is anal retentive if not obsessive compulsive. "Well, would you like to make Chanukah cards?"

"Chanukah is over." She perks up a bit. "Chanukah is eight days and this year it was early because we have a special calendar and so sometimes it is early and sometimes it is late. And we have a special New Year, too. This year is 5768. But we celebrate regular New Year's too, and this year Sabba says I can stay up 'til the big ball drops on TV."

I take a moment to process the flood of information that just came at me. "Wow. Okay, well that's…interesting. I didn't know that."

She scuffs her sneaker on the carpet and twists a finger around one of her braids. "I learn a lot because I have regular school and Hebrew school."

"Oh." I'm briefly reminded of the conversation in which I told Luka that he'd better not have any ideas about Joe and Sunday School because my son would not, under any circumstances, be learning creationism. He seemed to enjoy that, actually, and reassured me that, one, he'd never planned on it, and two, he knew better than to suggest it. And then told me it was sexy when I was stern and could I please list more things Joe couldn't do?

I pull myself out of reminiscent mode and refocus back to where Gabby has gone quiet again. "Would you like to make New Year's cards?"

"Okay."

I start walking toward the table, not sure if she'll follow me, when I feel a hand close around two of my fingers. I look down to see her very somberly walking with me, hand latched around mine.

Okay, just break my heart right there, why don't you?

We settle down with a bunch of crayons and paper at an empty table. She inspects the crayons carefully. "I don't know what to draw."

"What about a picture of your family watching the ball drop?"

The tiniest of smiles emerges and she grabs for a blue crayon. "What will you draw?"

"I think I'll make a Christmas card. We celebrate Christmas in my family."

"Are you drawing them?"

"My family?" God, I was planning to just make a tree or something, because my art skills are pretty much limited to stick figures and outlines of major organs, but now I guess it's only fair. "Yeah. I'm going to draw my family decorating the Christmas tree."

She sets about the whole thing very seriously, looking like she's concentrating harder than I do on most traumas. It's actually kind of adorable. I involve myself with trying to draw a tree, which looks more like a sea urchin that got in a traffic accident, but once I color it green, I figure it'll be recognizable. I glance over as she starts adding little squiggles coming out the sides of someone's head. "What are those?"

"My braids." She points to a real one.

"Oh. That's a pretty good braid."

"Thanks." She glances over at my paper. "What's that?"

"It's supposed to be a tree. Not a very good one, is it?"

She giggles and shakes her head. "No. There's no stick part."

"I knew I forgot something." I add a brown square to the bottom. "Better?"

"Uh-huh." She returns to her own drawing.

I add a couple of stick figures around my dead-sea-urchin tree, and put some brown hair on one of them and some black hair on the other, significantly taller stick figure. As an afterthought, I give the tall, black-haired stick figure a pair of antlers and give the short, brown-haired stick figure a little red-and-white dress. I space out for a few minutes, thinking about last Christmas, which started off being not that great and ended up very great and very naked. I give Luka credit – not every man can look sexy wearing only antlers. He definitely can.

He'd been pretty pleased with his special present – the little red-and-white number – and the holiday cheer that ensued. And once it was all over and done with and we'd been all over and done each other – several times, actually – and we were lying in bed half-comatose and warm and ridiculously happy, I asked him something I'd been meaning to for ages. I mean, I sort of knew the answer, but I wanted to hear him say it.

"_Why did you give me that snow globe?"_

"_Hmm?"_

"_At Susan's Christmas party a few years ago. The Secret Santa thing. I know it was you."_

"_Is that so?"_

"_Luka. Everyone gave gag gifts except you."_

_He sighs and turns to me. "I traded with Chuny for you."_

"_You did?"_

"_Mmhmm." He wraps an arm tighter around my waist. "I, uh…I bought it for you the year before."_

"_You did?" I lean up on one elbow and look right at him, and he's actually blushing a little. Luka. Blushing._

"_It was supposed to be for Christmas, but…when we…" He trails off. "I wanted to give it to you."_

I'm snapped out of my reverie by a prod from Gabby, who has inadvertently jabbed me with a pink crayon while peering at my artwork. "Who are they?"

"That's me." I point to the brown-haired figure, and then to the one with antlers. "And that's my husband."

She giggles. "Why does he have horns?"

"They're antlers. Like a reindeer."

"Why?"

"Because…he likes to dress up on Christmas." And then dress down. Way down.

"Oh."

I take a look at her paper. "Who are they?"

"That's me." She points to a short figure with squiggly braids. "That's Sabba, and that's Savta. And that's Mommy." She indicates a figure with a huge frown.

"Why is she frowning?"

"She's sad."

"Why is she sad?"

"Because of Daddy." She fiddles with a crayon. "Because Daddy was mean to her and had to go away."

"Oh. I'm…I'm sorry to hear that."

She rests her head on her arms and looks at me. "Mommy gets sad now. Sabba says it's because she misses Eli."

I ask even though I don't want to, because, well, I have to. "Who is Eli?"

"Eli was the baby." Her voice is a whisper, again, and points to a star shape on her paper. "Sabba says Eli went to be a star in the sky."

I have to fight the urge to vomit now. "Oh."

"Eli cried a lot." She picks at the waxy crayon residue. "Daddy didn't like when Eli cried."

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes, in my case because I want to start crying myself. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of relief that, as hard as it is being away from him, Joe is surrounded by people who love him. That his father would literally give his life to protect him. That he managed to make it through the whole ordeal of my relapse unscathed. I pick up a crayon and add a small stick figure to my picture, with light brown hair.

"Who's that?" Gabby points to the new addition.

"That's my little boy. His name is Joe." I try to swallow the massive lump in my throat. "I'm sorry your brother went away, Gabby."

"Me, too." She pats the little star with one finger. "I liked him even if he cried."

"I bet he liked you, too."

The corners of her mouth twitch and she sits up straight again. "That's what Sabba said. Sabba said that Eli liked me so much and I liked him so much that he's not really gone."

"You know, I think maybe that's true."

"I know. Sabba is the smartest person in the world."

I have to smile at that. "It sounds like it."

* * *

We stay about two hours, my whole time spent coloring and talking with Gabby. I don't ask any more about her family. Kids might be resilient, able to talk about it, but me? It takes me a good half hour after she tells me about her brother to stop biting my lip to keep from crying. We end up with a whole pile of pictures, some of which are collaborations. At the end she gives me a shy smile and hands me a picture she drew of a unicorn, which is actually discernable as a unicorn, which is impressive. Especially since my pictures couldn't be distinguished from what Joe does with a handful of crayons on a bet. And of course, my heart absolutely melts and I have an overwhelming urge to wrap my arms around her and hold her and be sure nothing can ever hurt her again. It physically aches, looking at her, knowing that as much as it sucked to grow up with Maggie, it's nothing compared with what this kid has gone through.

I realize once we get back that it's too late to call Croatia, which really bothers the hell out of me as I have the overwhelming need to hear my son's voice. To know he's okay. I suppose every parent worries like this, worries that their child is going to be hurt when the likelihood is slim to none, and that it hurts a parent ten times as much as anyone else to hear the story of another child being hurt, but I feel as though it's a little different with me, because I came so close to losing him for real.

The thing that scares me more than anything – more than relapsing, more than dying, more than Luka leaving me – is the thought of what might have happened if it had all gone the other way. Ten seconds here, an inch to the left there, if something, anything had changed, and Joe hadn't made it. I watched my son being cut out of me limp and barely breathing, and in that moment I had been so sure he was dead that I could feel this rush of dread over me. I didn't care if I bled out. Half of me hoped I would, because god, I didn't want to be there when they told me, told Luka, that they were sorry, but he hadn't made it. I don't think I felt for the next few weeks, even after they reassured me over and over that he was doing well, his test were fine, because he was there in his isolette and it ate at me and ate at me, the feeling that in a split second he could be gone. All the optimism, all the talk of having to believe, it went over my head. I couldn't hope. Because the second I did, the second I believed he'd be all right, I knew it would be that moment when the rug came out from under me and I didn't want to fool myself only to fall flat.

I've never been so incomprehensibly happy to be wrong as when I walked out of the NICU, holding my son. My living, breathing, beautiful son.

And never so incomprehensibly grateful for the man who held the door open for us.

Luka and I laid awake that night, despite being totally exhausted, just talking. Well, he was talking. I was talking and watching the bassinet like a hawk, jumping at the slightest noise or lack thereof. After about an hour of that he got up and very gently moved Joe around to his side of the bed, which ended up meaning I had to be draped over him in order to keep an eye on the baby. And at one point, while I was trying to lean over him very discreetly to make sure Joe was still okay, I caught sight of Luka's eyes and I remember this chill, looking at him, at his eyes, and realizing that they were different. A little bluer or greener or something, maybe just brighter, but different. Vivid. Happy.

"_I hope he has your eyes. And your hands." I slide my fingers into his, and he squeezes them. "And I'd like it if…if he was better at being hurt. Both of us, we let it affect us so much, and I don't want that for him. I want him to know how to get past it." _

"_I think maybe we're both getting better at that." He grins, one of those deliriously happy grins I've been seeing an awful lot of in the past few days._

"_True. But still, I hope he has an easier time learning."_

"_Me too."_

_I rest my head on his chest, eyes still glued to the bassinet. "And I hope he has your heart. The same desire to help people." _

"_I think maybe he could get that from both sides." _

"_Yeah, I just – he'll look up to you. You're his father, you know – you're a good example. His standard. As far as men he can look up to, I'm not complaining, I mean, he's got a good model." _

"_You think so?" _

"_Mmhmm." I snake an arm around his waist. "As long as you know one thing."_

"_Uh-oh."_

"_If he goes anywhere near the continent of Africa other than on safari –"_

"_Ah."_

"_I swear to god I'll kill you, Luka."_

"_I'll make a note." I can feel the movement of his chest as he chuckles._

"_Any war zones, actually. Or jungles. Or deserts."_

"_I'll make sure he knows not to leave the continent."_

"_Croatia's okay. I mean, so long as nobody starts a war. And Western Europe."_

"_What about South America?" _

"_Do you watch the news, Luka? I'm not sending him off to be kidnapped by a drug cartel."_

"_Okay, so – United States, Canada, Western Europe, and Croatia?" His free hand starts making little circles on my back._

"_If it's in NATO, he can go there."_

"_What if all of Africa joins NATO?"_

"_I find that very unlikely."_

"_Hypothetically."_

_I sit up, finally looking away from Joe. "I'll make them un-join. Or amend the rules. Whatever I feel like."_

"_Abby?"_

"_What?"_

"_I hope he has your determination."_


	12. Sweet Chariot

**A/N: **After a request to continue this past rehab, and as the end of Abby's stint nears (for those who've been counting, we're in the beginning of her fourth week), I did some thinking and came to the conclusion that I will, in fact, take this fic further (thanks to the people I've bounced that idea off of recently). I'm very much open to requests for what to cover, though I make no promises. And - hint, hint - more reviews would be lovely. Thanks to the first-timers, as well as the regulars, who reviewed this last chapter (keep 'em coming), but one of the things holding me back from continuing is the downright pathetic number of reviews as compared with some of the crackfics/crapfics posted in this genre. I mean, really. ;-)

Oh, and "Sweet Chariot" is not the "swing low, sweet chariot" one, though I do a mean gospel version of that thanks to a really misguided high-school choir director. If I do say so myself (and I do, though it takes quite a bit of tequila to get me to sing it).

* * *

**"Sweet Chariot"**

"Abby." The voice creeps its way into my dream, disrupting what was shaping up to be a much hotter version of Luka's visit the other day. "Abby," it persists.

I groan. "What."

"I…I need your help."

I squint at the clock and then at the figure in the doorway. "Thalia? It's three-thirty in the morning."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just…please?"

"Yeah." Something about her voice just isn't right, so I haul myself out of bed and follow her down the hallway, thankful the night nurse is fully tuned-in to the television. She heads into the bathroom, and I don't mean to gasp, but it's difficult not to when you see that much blood covering a tile floor. Even after working in an emergency room for ten years. "Jesus! What happened?"

"Umm…" She doesn't meet my eyes. "You're a doctor, right?"

"Yeah. Did you fall or something?" Even saying it, I know she didn't fall. I look at her arm, which she's currently clutching with her other hand, and see the blood seeping through her sleeve and down her fingers. "Oh god."

"I didn't mean…it won't stop bleeding." Her voice is soft and high, and I have to remind myself that she's just a kid. Nineteen, maybe twenty, I can't remember, but a kid. Her eyes are wide, terrified in fact. Christ.

"Your wrist?" She nods. "Okay, keep pressure on your arm, about two inches up, and let me take a look."

The sight isn't pretty. Her wrists are already pretty beat up, and it looks like she's sliced a good half centimeter deep, if not more. "It looks like you got a couple of veins. You're going to need stitches."

"I can't show them," she murmurs. "They'll send me to psych. My parents will freak, I can't –"

"You don't have a choice." I'm working half a roll of paper towels and a washcloth around her wrist as a makeshift bandage, still applying pressure as best I can. "I know you're scared, but you need to go to the hospital. You need stitches."

"Can't you do them?"

"Not without a suture kit and sterile gloves, not to mention a tetanus shot. What did you use?"

"That." She nods to the sink, where a light bulb is in about twelve pieces.

I try to recall what sort of distasteful chemicals lurk in light bulbs. Tungsten? Mercury? If nothing else, it's not the cleanest bulb I've ever seen by far. "I wish I had some alcohol." I catch the double entendre and smirk. "To clean it. Not to drink."

"Couldn't hurt," she sighs. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you, I just –"

"It's okay." I show her where to apply pressure on the makeshift bandage and give her a little smile before washing my hands. "We do have to tell the nurse on shift, though."

She looks down at the floor, and she looks more like nine than nineteen right now. The dark makeup she usually wears is gone, and she's already pale enough from all the blood she's lost without being suddenly free of eyeliner. She seems much less vulnerable in the waking hour.

I sit her on the toilet and direct her to hold her arm above her head while I mop the blood up with the remainder of the paper towels. "All right. Ready?"

"No." She stands up, arm bent and resting over her head, and shuffles after me with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.

They don't let me go with her to the hospital, even when I remind a trainee EMT that taking her pulse on the arm she's losing blood from is probably not a great plan. The look on her face when they walk her out to the rig damn near breaks my heart. I've seen it before, in the ER and elsewhere, and it screams _please don't leave me_ and there's nothing I can do but offer her a little smile and promise her it'll all be okay, which is a blatant lie. Things never end up being okay when you're oozing blood from an extremity and being carted off by a couple of paramedics who seem to have been assigned to the night shift as punishment for being morons. As much as I would rather not run into them, I'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable if Zadro and Bardelli were the ones taking her to the hospital.

But see, having an MD means jack in rehab, so I'm sent back to bed and I snuggle under the covers and squeeze my eyes shut and try to take up where I left off with Luka.

* * *

"I just…I don't get it."

"Get what?"

"What would make someone want to do that. I mean, it's not like she was trying to off herself."

"How do you know?"

"She wouldn't have come to me. She wouldn't have been as afraid. I've seen people who've tried to kill themselves. They don't…it's not the sort of behavior typical of a suicidal person."

"There are many people who attempt suicide by that method. You know that."

I shake my head. "I did my psych rotation. I deal with attempted suicides in the ER. Successful ones, too. She wasn't trying to kill herself."

Celia crosses and uncrosses her legs, and I can tell that it's weird for her, talking to another doctor without being able to actually treat me as a colleague. I also know she wants to agree with me but can't. "So what is it you don't get, then?"

"Why she wants to hurt herself just to hurt herself. It seems like…like there's no real end to the means."

"Of course there is. You know that. You do it when you drink. She does it when she hurts herself. It's a different mean to a common end."

"Pain?"

"Distraction. From the deeper issues." She sighs. "For a person who cuts themself, the aim is to manifest superficial pain to distract from an emotional one. For an alcoholic, the aim is to use alcohol to escape from reality, thereby avoiding the emotional pain."

"I guess. I just don't see the appeal of escaping it by causing more pain."

"Well, I suppose that's a good thing."

I almost roll my eyes, but catch myself as she's taken to calling me out for it. I feel like Pavlov's dog for a second.

"I want to ask you something that's going to be difficult to answer. I'd like you to try, though, given how little time we have left."

Well that's always a great introduction, up there with "we need to talk" and "can we step outside for a moment."

"The night you blacked out…" I wince. "…What was it you were feeling when you began drinking that night?"

"I was feeling…I don't know. Overwhelmed, I guess. Desperate."

"Overwhelmed by what?"

"By…being alone. Having to do it all, alone, without Luka. Raising Joe, finishing my residency…and not knowing how long I'd be doing that."

"You were afraid he wasn't coming back."

"Yes. No. Not as much afraid as…betrayed. I felt like he'd broken his promise."

"What promise?" She shifts in her chair, head cocked to one side. She's obviously interested. Therapeutic gold.

"That we'd do it together. That he would stay, that he would be with me. He said it, when we got married, that he…_chose_ me as the one he wanted to be with. And a couple of days later, he was gone. And it's not as though I blamed him or thought he was deserting me. It's just – " I trail off, appalled at how selfish and needy I sound.

Celia seems to read the look on my face. "It's all right to need someone, Abby. Especially someone you love, and put your trust in. Luka was the first person you really let in."

"Yes. And I started thinking…I started thinking that maybe he wasn't coming back. That he'd been home and remembered who he used to be, before me, before Joe, before the war even. And that he preferred it."

"Did he ever give you any indication that he felt that way?"

I think about the conversation after Joe got hurt, after I took that first drink. Come home, I'd begged him to come home. It wasn't fair to ask, but I needed him and needed to know he would. And he'd said no. He'd said no a couple more times after that, and so I stopped asking because I didn't want to burden him more than he already was. "Not intentionally, I guess."

"But there was something?"

"He was gone for months. _Months._ And as much as he said he missed us, he never asked us to come there or tried to come home. And we had the money, too, for him to visit. When Joe started walking, I asked, and he said he couldn't just then, and he kept saying that. So yeah, I started to get the feeling that he didn't want to come home."

"And so…it culminated that night?"

"No. No, I just…it wasn't that night, it wasn't special, it was just that I hadn't gone out drunk before that. And I knew I shouldn't. I didn't plan to. But then I put Joe to bed and the house seemed so empty, and it was driving me crazy being there, alone."

"So you went out."

"So I went out, and…" I feel my stomach turn over. "He noticed me. He talked to me."

"You wanted to feel as though you were worthwhile."

"I wanted to feel as though I was worthwhile, and that I was wanted, and that I was…"

"_Can you just hold onto me? I can't stand real well."_

"Abby?"

"_Let me get you home. You shouldn't be on your own right now."_

"That you were what?"

"_I shouldn't…I can't go home like this."_

"Safe. That I was safe."

"From what?"

"Being alone. From being alone…I couldn't do it any more, I couldn't be alone in that apartment, it was too big and too quiet, and it just scared the shit out of me. It didn't feel like home anymore. It felt like..." I can feel my throat knotting up and the pressure of tears building. I can't help it. They just start coming, running down my face, hot and fast and messy. I take the box of tissues Celia hands me and try to soak them up before they fall, but it keeps coming.

It takes a good five minutes to stop, and when I manage to compose myself, Celia nods a little encouragement and I realize I actually have to finish the statement.

"It felt like something was eating a hole in me. Like the longer I stayed there, the more I would just fade into irrelevance. I don't know how to describe it, really, it was just as if…I don't know, the silence was killing me, literally."

"That sounds like depression, to me." She scribbles something on a pad of paper. "Like I've said before, though, I don't feel comfortable making a diagnosis like that at this stage."

"I don't think I'm depressed. Not clinically."

Celia looks at me, like she's trying to read between the lines or something. It's a little bit creepy – all the staff and therapists have this look they'll give you now and then, like they're using their x-ray vision to read you. "I think that when you drink, depression surfaces along with it. It's not at all uncommon."

"I know."

"I'd like you to continue therapy after you leave, Abby. What we've dealt with in your time here has been very substantial, but I believe that you need to continue to work on all of it. Especially what you just said about the silence killing you. You need to work through the things that make sitting with your thoughts so difficult."

"I think the thoughts are to blame." I raise an eyebrow at her.

"Working on your propensity towards deflecting with sarcasm wouldn't be a bad idea, either." She returns the look. "I'm going to put together a list of names for you. Some out-patient psychologists who I think you might work well with."

"I'm really not sure if that's something I want to do at this point."

"Abby, what do you think is going to happen if, despite all the work you've done, Luka decides he can't be with you?"

"I…" I stop, because I don't have an answer. Other than that I don't know, so I say so.

"I think that you need to consider that possibility. And the kind of support you'll need if that's the case. And I think it could benefit you if that's not the case, too. We've uncovered a lot here, but we've really just touched on things. I think delving deeper could strengthen you as an individual."

Or wreck me. Because, let's be honest, I can't see a whole lot of good coming from reopening old wounds. Sure, being here has been a huge thing for me, and I do think I'm coming out the other side of this stronger, but really, what point is there in digging up things that have nothing whatsoever to do with my present or my future? It took me long enough to move past some of those things. I don't feel all that enthusiastic about dragging them back into relevance just so I can get all my deep, dark secrets squared away.

Celia once again seems to have psychic abilities, because while I'm sitting there contemplating this, she interjects with, "I know some of the uglier things in your past might not seem pertinent to your recovery, but I think a lot of this process involves recognizing what it is that drove you to this point. And more importantly, forgiving yourself and the people who've hurt you in the past so that you're able to focus on the future."

"I _am_ focused on the future." It comes out close to a whine, but I don't much care. "That's the reason I'm here, because I _want_ a future. Why else would I be doing this?"

She looks me dead in the eye. "It's one thing to want a future. It's a different thing altogether to stop being afraid of it."

* * *

Dinner tonight is group-style. Most days we troupe over to the main building to the cafeteria, but Friday nights are pizza and Mondays we have a communal dinner that everyone helps to prepare. Like a big, fucked-up, mentally ill family. It actually reminds me a little of dinners in the doctors' lounge.

I'm always in charge of something totally pointless, like chopping vegetables or making a salad, given my nonexistent culinary skills. That, and the fact that I'm one of the few permitted to use a knife. Tonight I'm on potato-peeling duty, which is really completely tedious work, and I vocalize my objections. Marla snickers from where she's manning a frying pan. "I'm sorry, Emeril, did you want to flambé something?"

"You know, just because I can't cook doesn't mean I should be penalized."

"Any migrant worker would be thrilled to have your job, so I'd just be grateful you're not on dishwashing."

I fling a potato peel at her, which sticks to her hair and she lets out a little howl of protest. "Hah. That's for the underpaid migrant workers."

"Bitch, I've got hot oil, and –"

"Ladies," comes a warning voice. "Can we please not have another incident?"

"I was _not_ involved in that," I remind Dianne.

"I was not involved in that," Marla mimics in a whiny voice.

I spin around to face her. "Real grown up. Remind me again who was the ringleader of that particular event?"

She rolls her eyes in response. "It was a good tension-relief exercise."

"A food fight is now a therapeutic device?"

She mutters something, but doesn't respond, and I hear Cynthia giggling from the counter next to me.

We manage to get the food on the table without Marla or anyone else causing a major problem – well, except for a little accident with the potato peeler that resulted in a contaminated potato and a band-aid, but at least nothing to rival this morning. I feel a little strange that Thalia's missing, but there's not a lot of dead air to contemplate it. A couple of the younger girls bust out a "Would You Rather" book and pretty soon the table has completely segregated by gender, save for the lone gay guy who stays on our side.

Some girl who looks suspiciously like she belongs in the eighties from the amount of neon and plastic jewelry she has on starts off with, "Would you rather marry for love or money?"

Hah, been there, done both of them. Okay, so I didn't date Carter for his money, but still, I've been with a millionaire and no amount of mansions would have convinced me to stay with him. Besides, I think we'd have burned through all that money pretty quickly with all the couples counseling we'd have needed.

Marla rolls her eyes and asks if anyone has anything to snort to make this more amusing, which earns her another reprimand from Dianne and a chorus of giggles from anyone else. Miss Day-Glo scowls and hands the book over to Marla, who rifles through before an evil grin forms. "Would you rather your nether region glow when you're turned on or start playing the theme song from _Titanic_ whenever you orgasm?"

Cynthia spits out a mouthful of water laughing while Jenna turns bright red at the word "orgasm." Paul, our lone male, announces that _Titanic_ is his favorite movie, so it would make the moment even more special. Marla gives him a look of utter disgust.

"I think I'd choose the glowing thing," I offer, letting Paul off the hook. "At least that way my husband would know when not to bother, and when he should put the baby to bed."

"Yeah, but what if, like, you get turned on by someone else?" Day-Glo's friend takes a sip of her Tab, the origin of which I honestly have no idea.

"Have you _seen_ her husband?" Cynthia recovers from her fit to respond. "I'd have a hard time getting turned on by anyone else if I was married to that."

I blush and take a massive forkful of salad. It's pretty valid, though. I definitely haven't found myself getting hot and bothered for anyone else since Luka came into the picture. Well, back into the picture. I mean, I can still appreciate the male form, but as guys I'd fantasize about go, Luka is at the top of my list. By a longshot.

"I'm sticking with the _Titanic_ one, in that case," Marla announces. "I don't think it would be too nice if every time that male nurse from C Building came by, I started glowing."

"Ooh, yeah, what's his name again? Carl? Ken?"

"Cole," murmurs Marla dreamily. "And I swear to god once I'm out of here, I'm going to tap that."

"You did not just say 'tap that'." Cynthia pries the book from Marla's hands. "Okay, here's one. Would you rather be haunted by all of your exes or by all of your spouse's exes?"

I can feel a sort of cold, nauseas feeling spread over me at that. _You're married to a ghost._ God, I don't think I've ever said anything so completely cruel. The moment it came out of my mouth, I wanted to kick myself. The thing is, it felt like that, but throwing it in his face…the thought of it still makes me cringe. It was sort of as though I was determined to hurt him as much as what he'd said hurt me, and instead of being a bitch and telling him something baseless and plain mean, I said the one thing that I'd felt the most being with him.

I apologized to him for it, about six months after we'd gotten back together, which was not something that came easy. He was supremely kind about it, and told me that I'd been right and that maybe he'd needed to hear it, which just made me feel worse. And of course he apologized for what he'd said that night, and told me it wasn't true, that I was beautiful and always had been and extraordinary – funny that his brother used the same word, though maybe he'd heard it from Luka – and I still have trouble believing it, some days, but I do believe that he thinks so. We never did talk much about the truth behind what I'd said, though. Part of me thought maybe we didn't need to, because it was obvious that he wasn't constantly plagued by it anymore, but at the same time I kept hoping he'd bring it up, and he never really did. I wanted to ask, but it's like – how do you bring up the subject of a person's dead wife and children? You don't. You tiptoe around it as best you can, because you're terrified of reminding them of it.

I think maybe if I had, he would have felt more like he had one family instead of me and Joe, and then his father and brother and niece and nephews over in Croatia. Felt as though he could have asked me to be there with him. Maybe I'll never quite know why he didn't, but to be perfectly honest, it hurt. I wanted him to ask for that, and for whatever reason, he didn't.

I'm beginning to understand that maybe the reason Luka came to see me that first time, said what he did, is because after being hurt so much, by the war and by other women who just didn't want to deal with the person inside that had so much pain and even me, who threw that at him and maybe even took him for granted the first time around, and everything, he needs to protect himself. Maybe the thought of being hurt again has him scared. And that's something I know a hell of a lot about.

I promise myself, for what has to be the hundredth time, that whatever it takes, whatever he needs, so long as it doesn't compromise my sobriety or my son, I'll do anything to keep from hurting him even more. Because the closer I come to having to face telling him the truth, the more I realize that there's nothing in the world I want more than for him and Joe to be happy.

And I want it a thousand times more than I've ever wanted a drink.


	13. Maybe Next Year

**"Maybe Next Year"**

"Hey." His voice is soft and I can hear the smile spreading on his face. "I was waiting for you to call."

"Oh yeah?" I try to sound nonchalant but I don't think he's fooled. I think he knows from the girly little squeak in my voice that I'm downright thrilled to hear that.

"Yeah. I, er…" He pauses a moment. "I wanted to know if anything had…arrived."

"You don't mean the bouquet of roses only slightly larger than a Volkswagen, do you?"

He laughs. "They weren't that big, were they?"

"It caused…a mild scene." Highlighted by Marla and Cynthia making even more inappropriate comments than usual. "They're beautiful, Luka. Really, you didn't have to do that. It was…very sweet."

"I know you like the dried kind, but they didn't sell them."

"No, no, these were great. And I can…you know…dry them once I'm home."

There's another pause and I can hear rustling in the background. "Soon, eh?"

"Yeah. Monday…it seems…surreal."

"Glad to be finished?" His voice sounds a little apprehensive, not that I blame him.

"Yeah. I mean – not that I'm done, really – I still need…to work on it." I fumble around for the right words. "It feels…good, though. Like I've accomplished something."

"Well…you have." I can hear the gap in his words, trying to think of what to say and how to say it and then the translation. It's still obvious, every time we talk, that he's struggling to really grasp the whole concept of rehab, of my recovery. Of his wife being an alcoholic. "I know it's not…it hasn't been easy, but I – really hope it's the right thing."

"I think it was. Has been. I feel…like I've gotten a handle on some things."

"What?"

I smile to myself. "Figured some things out."

"Oh."

From the corner of my eye, I see Marla waving at me, grinning madly, her sons pushing her toward the door from behind as her daughter pulls one arm. I smile and wave back and try to suppress the raging jealousy I've been feeling all morning, every time someone else's family shows up. "So, you know, we've been talking for a good two minutes and neither of us have said it."

"Said what?"

I roll my eyes. "Merry Christmas, Luka."

"Oh, _that._" He chuckles. "Merry Christmas, Abby." There's a certain tenderness to his voice, and I feel a chill, remembering all the times and all the ways he's said that to me. All the times and ways I've said it to him. God, I want him to kiss me right now.

I clear my throat. "Is it snowing over there?"

"No," he sighs. "Nata and Stipe are…eh, not happy, to put it nicely. Joe's mad, too, but I'm not sure he knows why other than that his cousins are."

"Has he opened his presents yet?"

"You're joking."

"First thing in the morning?"

"It wasn't even light out. They ran around to the rooms singing – shouting – Christmas carols."

"Sounds about right." I can remember a few times when I was little, before Eric was born and before Maggie was so, well, Maggie, and before Eddie headed for the hills, tearing into their room on Christmas morning and hopping up and down, shrieking at them to wake up so we could open presents.

"Yeah, the little ones are cute, but they had Tomi and Iva and Mirna and the damn cat, too."

I rack my brain. "Remind me who they all belong to again."

"Tomi is Niko's oldest."

"He's the one studying in Zagreb, right?"

"Right. Iva and Mirna are Ana's sister's girls."

"Okay. I think I've got it. So the three cute ones, and three teenagers?"

"Well, Iva's twenty, now, but yeah. And I think the older ones had been…starting the celebrations early."

"A little holiday spirit, huh?"

"More than a little."

I can't help laughing at the thought of three kids and three drunken teenagers storming Luka's bed at five in the morning. "I can hardly imagine that going over well."

"Ana threw the big ones out and told them they had to stay out in the cold until they learned to be good examples."

"And you let them back in when she wasn't looking, didn't you?"

He hedges a minute, clearly not happy that I've judged him already. "Well…Niko and I may have…fed them through the window. And given them some blankets."

"Wow. That's…strict."

"It was very cold," he says, clearly indignant.

I snort. "I'm sure." All the same, I have to say it's endearing.

"So, what are you going to do tonight?"

"Janet's coming by with some Chinese. I think a lot of the others will be home for the night, so it should be quiet."

"That's…nice of her." There's a strange tone to his voice.

"I think so. Not that I wouldn't rather…"

"Yeah. Me, too."

"Next year," I sigh. "Next year we'll have a real Christmas. I promise. I know the last ones haven't been exactly…well…" I trail off. I honestly can't think of a Christmas we've had together that might be considered normal.

"I don't know, the surprise pregnancy wasn't the worst Christmas I've ever had."

"Yeah, well, maybe you were calm, but let's be honest –"

"Okay, yes, you were…not calm."

"Hah. Understatement."

"And last year ended well."

I blush despite myself. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

He laughs quietly. "Okay, so next year, it'll be the three of us. No one else. Unless you'd like Maggie –"

"Yeah, you know, I think three is a perfect number."

"Okay. Just the three of us. And snow."

"You know, that sounds…" I'm about to say perfect but an overwhelming ache settles in. I change the ending. "That sounds like exactly what I wish we were doing now."

"Me, too."

"I'm sorry, Luka, I really –"

He cuts me off. "Stop apologizing, Abby. It's getting…I don't want you to do that."

"Okay." I swallow hard.

"Good."

"Good," I murmur. "So…um…is Joe awake?"

"No." I can hear the honest regret in his voice, and maybe it's good we've both been in this position, half a world from our child. There's empathy to be had. "I'll call you when he's up and you can ask him about his presents."

"That good?"

"He piled them by his crib."

I burst out laughing. "Seriously?"

"I would not joke about that. It's…cute, but a little, you know, strange. I mean, Nata was helping him bring in a few books he got, and he just kept going."

"That's…you know, I'm proud of him. He's learning to plan ahead."

"Right." I can almost hear him shaking his head. And then a sigh. "Was it like this when I was away?"

"Like what?"

"Like…" He lowers his voice to a gravelly hum. "He keeps asking for you. And he won't – he doesn't want me when he's upset. He wants you."

I can't say anything. Half for the simple fact that it feels like I swallowed a tennis ball, and half for the fact that I really, really don't want to admit to Luka that after the first month or so, he did stop asking. Like he'd accepted the inevitable truth, and it scared the absolute hell out of me to think that maybe I would have to, as well.

And I have to wonder, if I stayed away another few months, would he move on from me, too?

"Of course."

"It's just…I don't know how to make it better for him."

"Did you give him the blanket?" I ask softly, given that I can't really tackle the question of how best to help my son stop missing me.

He clears his throat. "I told you I would."

"Does he…?"

"It smells like you." His tone is a little off, and I can't quite tell if he's smiling or trying not to cry. I'm doing the latter, and not a very good job of it. "I smelled it, and it does, and I think…maybe it smells like you, to him."

The effort not to cry fails. "I miss him. I wish…I just…"

"I know," he says, and I believe him. He has to know exactly how this feels. "We both miss you. Maybe in a few days, we should…we should try to figure out when you'll come here."

"Yeah. Okay."

"You still want to?"

"Of course. Do you –" I'm about to ask if he still wants me to come, but he cuts me off.

"Yes. I want…I want things to be normal again, Abby."

I go mute for a second. Because as much as I want normalcy, and I do, I'm not entirely sure we're going to get back to where we were before.

Celia keeps reminding me that it's not about that, it's not about going back to the status quo, but about rebuilding and moving forward. That things might not be the same, but they can still be good. Better, even.

"I know." My voice comes out a hoarse sort of whisper. "I hope…I hope you know that…just tell me what you need, and whatever it is –"

"You. I just need you, Abby."

I feel my heart constrict just a bit when he says that. It's terribly romantic of him to say so, but there in the back of my mind, I know it's not the truth. He needs a hell of a lot more than me. Important things like compassion and patience, both in excess, are going to be at the top of the list real soon. And I think he knows that, too, but it's Christmas and I guess the both of us are feeling more than a little lonely and sentimental, so maybe the heavier stuff can go on the back burner for now. The holiday spirit's in the air, right?

"Well, I think I can give you that."

* * *

Most of the people who have been here more than two weeks are allowed to go home for the day, including Marla, Cynthia, and Jenna, which leaves me rather alone. I feel a tiny bit better when I find Paul sitting and looking rather nostalgic in the common area, glued to the TV as the Grinch attempts to wreck Christmas for the Who townspeople. "Kind of reminds you of being a kid, doesn't it?"

I plop down on a vacant couch. "You mean the movie or the overall theme of Christmas being sabotaged?"

"Ooh, bitter much?"

I shrug and stare out at the snow that's coming down in fat, gooey flakes. "I'm down on holidays, I guess."

He gives me a knowing look. "The husband?"

"And the son."

"Well," he sighs, "at least you get to have one."

"A husband or a son?"

"Either."

I feel a wave of guilt go over me. "I'm sorry, I didn't –"

"Oh, honey, relax. I'm just messing with you." He grins. "You wanted to be down, I thought I'd help."

I shake my head and fling a pillow at him. "Kicking me while I'm down definitely violates the holiday spirit."

"So does being in rehab."

"Point taken." I glance at my watch. Janet won't be here until six, which is still a ways away. "Anyone special coming to see you?"

"My brother and sisters are in Florida, imposing on our parents and probably annoying the shit out of Shamu." He holds out a bag of M&Ms to me, which I happily accept. "And I dumped my boyfriend before I got here."

"Oh?"

"Kind of a requisite when you enter rehab."

I frown. "Since when is being single a part of rehab?"

"Since dating your dealer came into the mix." He grins guiltily. "What? He was cute and he gave me a great deal. But, yeah, it kind of makes sobriety hard when…you know."

"I'd imagine so." I raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on. You've never dated a drinking buddy?"

"I …" I squirm in my chair. "I might have dated an ex-sponsee, once."

"Ex?"

"Yeah, the sponsor-sponsee relationship failed pretty miserably when I started drinking again."

"I guess that makes sense." He lowers the volume on the television as a particularly obnoxious ad for mops comes on. "And your husband?"

"My husband what?"

"Does he drink?"

An unpleasant feeling crawls in my stomach, remembering Luka's comment about how he could never give up drinking, that he'd miss it too much. I don't know that I ever let myself feel bothered by the fact that he drinks, mostly because it would have meant dealing with those feelings myself. "Occasionally."

"And you're okay with it?"

"It…" I want to say I am, that he's not an alcoholic and hasn't been drunk in front of me since we've been together, but I can't help the voice in the back of my head that's shouting otherwise. "I guess I never made it an issue, but…no, not really."

"You should tell him."

"I probably shouldn't." I dig in my pocket for change. "Want a soda?"

He nods and pulls out some change of his own. "Dr. Pepper, if there's any left. Otherwise, Sprite is fine."

I head off to the vending area, glad to have avoided going any further with that particular topic. Right now, I honestly don't want to ask anything more than I have already of Luka. I don't want to push. Maybe, someday, providing there is one, we'll have that talk, but not now. Not when I'm just trying to hang onto him. I slip some change in the machine and prod at the button for Sprite, since, as usual, the Dr. Pepper is sold out. Cynthia and Paul both have a thing for it and tend to run through the supply within a day or so of the delivery guy restocking. And I'm kind of starting to like it, myself. I get myself a diet Coke and return to where Paul is once again tuned into the Grinch's antics. "Thanks," he says.

I smile and sit down again, watching as what is supposed to look like a little girl, but looks more like a basset hound puppy, stares at the Grinch and causes his heart to spontaneously grow. I instinctively think of what complications might ensue from such an event, but push it from my mind as best I can. I figure I'll be back to work soon enough, and probably ought to spend time sticking to legitimate medical quandaries. I'm just relieved I brought the PDR to study from now and then. Returning to work after this whole ordeal and being out of practice, to boot, doesn't sound like a good plan when I'll be looking for an attending position in a few months.

It scares the shit out of me sometimes, thinking about next year, when my residency will be over and, all of a sudden, I'll be the one in charge. No one to report to, no one to sign off, no one to fall back on. Just me, trying not to kill anyone. I feel like I'm a couple decades from being ready for that. I've always had that safety net of an attending watching out for me. And for a long time now, I've had the safety of Luka watching out for me – not just to be sure I don't screw up on a procedure, but to support me as a friend. And as my husband. And now that he's quit County, it's just altogether terrifying to think that he won't be there to keep an eye out, to be there if a case gets to me, to debate a treatment with. To smile at me and tell me I can do it, give me a little nudge to do what I need to and _can_ do.

It's terrifying to think of all the ways I need Luka, and all the ways I might have lost him.

* * *

"Abby L., visitor," Alice chirps. That girl is way too happy about working on a holiday. Or in general. I'm beginning to suspect she's been skimming Prozac from the nightly meds.

"Coming." I toss the _Cosmo_ I've now read at least six times, cover to cover, aside and follow her to the reception desk where Janet is stamping snow off of herself. I can smell the Chinese wafting from the paper bag on the desk. "Hey, you made it."

"Just barely." She smiles, and I can tell that she's genuinely glad to see me. Especially to see me not looking like a train wreck. "Snowing hard, out there."

She gives me a hug once her jacket and boots are put aside to thaw and we head back to the dining room – okay, dining room conveys more fanciness than really exists, but that's what it's called – and I get plates and forks and all that good stuff and we dig in. "Mmm," I murmur through a massive mouthful of General Tso's and rice. "I missed take-out."

"Glad I could bring some holiday cheer." Janet smiles.

We eat in relative silence. It takes all of ten minutes to polish it all off. It's sort of sad how big a deal the little things – Chinese take-out, a trip to the mall, a phone call – become when you're cut off from the world. Even sadder is just what I'd do for a hot shower that lasted more than seven minutes with my own fucking loofah and a big, thick terrycloth towel. Then again, I'll get that in a matter of days, and I'm not actually looking forward to it too much. Not when everything is so up in the air and there won't be a smiling husband or squealing baby to receive me. If I'm lucky, it'll be a pile of Christmas cards and three voicemails from Maggie, who I never did get up the nerve to call.

I may be sober, but I'm by no means stupid enough to think I can handle my mother. God forbid she'd take it upon herself to get on a bus and attempt to take care of me.

We clear the table and sit kind of awkwardly in a couple of cushioned chairs. I don't think she knows quite what to say or do, and neither do I. It's not supposed to be a sponsor-sponsee sort of night. It's Christmas, for crying out loud. We're supposed to be…I don't know, filled with merriment and goodwill towards man. I clear my throat like I know what the hell to say and she beats me to it. "So. Monday."

"Monday," I confirm.

"Excited?"

"I guess." I shift in my chair, pulling my feet up under me. "It'll be nice to sleep in my own bed."

"But?"

"I guess I'm just…apprehensive."

"There's always a meeting, if you need one." She pauses. "An extra one, I mean."

I nod. "I know."

"And you can call me. Day or night."

"I know. It's not…it's not that. I mean, it is, but it's not the scary part. I think that part, I'll be able to manage."

"Luka." It's not a question.

"Right."

"Well," she takes a fortune cookie from the bottom of the paper bag and begins unwrapping it. "I don't know what to tell you, on that front. There are no certainties. And there are no universal rules on how to deal with it."

"I know." I take a cookie for myself. "I'm just…afraid of having to face him."

Janet looks down a moment, concentrating harder than she probably needs to on cracking open her cookie. Her eyes come up and she looks at me, again, and I feel oddly comforted by the sincerity in her expression. It's one of those looks that I'd imagine a mother – one other than mine, of course – would give her daughter the first time she was dumped by a boy, or when she came home crying because she didn't make the varsity string. "The more someone loves you, the harder they take this kind of thing. He's probably just as scared as you are." The corners of her mouth turn up a little. "That's the thing about addiction. The people we love, who love us, generally handle it just as badly as we do."

I nod and let that settle in while I ease the fortune out of the cookie shell and flip it over. "Seriously?"

"What?"

I hand her the little scrap of paper. "It's blank."

"Well, Abby..." She chuckles. "I guess that's life's way of telling you that you control your own destiny."


	14. Feel So Different

**A/N:** Holy crap, I updated. It's a Christmakkah miracle. I know it's been forever (mea culpa), but I've been working on writing this one chapter the whole time. No joke. My muse is absolutely dead. A helicopter fell on it. And then it got a brain tumor, jumped on the El tracks, climbed inside an exploding ambulance, and was stabbed on Valentine's Day. All very tragic.

Actually, the truth is that I haven't had any desire to write the start of the semester. Sometimes, you come across someone (in my case, a screenwriting professor), who is such a prick that they sap all of the joy out of something you once loved. And that would be what's happened to writing, for me. Sucks, doesn't it? Alas, I have no idea if my inspiration will make its meandering way back, and thus no idea when or even if I'll update. I want to, I really do, but I can't make any promises. So we'll see what the New Year brings.

A giant thank you to Essy for putting up with my whining, cursing, ranting, and various cat-related stories over the past few months while this chapter made its way into existence.

* * *

**"Feel So Different"**

It's funny, really – the first few days here were so slow I'd have sworn they were messing with me, changing the clocks to make the day longer. And now it's the exact opposite. The last few days…they just sort of fly by. I feel at various points like I've gone through a wormhole, that whole hours are just gone without my presence.

Marla leaves that Friday, and so we spend the whole night before sitting up and talking. A lot of it is total crap, remembering some of the funnier moments of the past month, like the time she fell dead asleep during a guided meditation session and woke up in a slimy puddle of her own drool. Or when, after a particularly shitty group session, I slammed the bathroom door, forgetting it jammed sometimes, and managed to get stuck in there. I spent about twenty minutes banging on it to be let out until they actually had to take the thing off its hinges to get me out. Or the time Cynthia got so pissed at Dianne for hanging up the phone while she was still talking – ten minutes past the time limit – that she went on this long tirade and used some language that even I wouldn't throw around publicly while Dianne just stood there calmly, with her arms crossed, and didn't so much as bat an eye when Cynthia started taking it out on the payphone. And of course, payphones aren't exactly flimsy, so she looked like an idiot just yanking on the metal cord and getting more and more pissed until she gave up and flung the phone book down the hall.

Eventually we get on the subject of Luka, by way of her usual vulgar comments, and it isn't until she mentions that I must by absolutely dying to jump him that I go all quiet. And then she asks, and I don't know what part of my mind decides that it's time to say it, but I do. I tell her about that night, and Moretti, and how after Luka came back it was real clear what was on his mind, and that I just couldn't. And I still don't know if I can.

She nods and sits quiet a minute, fiddling with a gum wrapper. "I cheated on Rick. Twice."

"When you were drunk?"

"The first time, yeah. I think I had more alcohol than blood in me, so naturally I had no clue what the hell I was doing, but anything stupid sounded like a plan." She sighs and stretches out on her bed, head propped on one elbow. "The second time, I hadn't had much. I knew what I was doing."

I nod lamely. Except I don't know what that's like, really, because for all the dumb shit I've done, even sober, that's never been something that tempted me.

"I think it was a combination of things that made me want to. We were having a rough time about then, and I think I just needed to be with someone who didn't think such shit about me, valid or not. Not that I'm excusing it. And I kinda think I wanted to push him – Rick – away more. Push him to leave me."

I think briefly of what I said to Luka that night we broke up. I think that, besides actually feeling that way and just being damn tired of it, and besides wanting to throw something as caustic as what he'd just said to me back in his face, I wanted to give him an out. A reason to just say, to hell with it.

"At the same time, I mean – I don't know how much control I had over myself at that point, drunk or not."

"I know what you mean." I glance to the picture on my night table, of me and Luka and Joe, just after we'd gotten married. "God, I don't want to go back to that. Ever."

"You won't."

"You can't know that."

"I've been in rehab enough times to know who'll land on their ass and who won't. You won't." She reaches across the gap between our beds and squeezes my arm lightly. "And you and the stud muffin are going to make it."

I shake my head, trying not to smile. "I want to believe you, but –"

"But what, it's complicated?" She rolls her eyes. "It's always complicated."

"I don't know if he's going to be able to get past what happened. I don't know if…if he has any more forgiveness in him."

She cocks her head to one side. "Because…?"

"Because he's been through some pretty, uh…horrific stuff in his life, and I don't think he can handle one more thing falling apart." I catch her eye. "I'm not – I mean, he was married. Before."

"Divorce?"

"Widowed." I let that hang in the air a minute, watching what I just said register on her face. "He was married, before he moved to the U.S. They had a little boy and a girl."

"They all…?" Her hand goes to her mouth. "Jesus Christ. I…I can't…Christ, Abby, that's…"

"Yeah." I look down at the bedspread, the floral pattern with its green swirls oddly calming to trace with one finger. It occurs to me for the first time that I've only ever told two people that – Maggie, which was largely in an attempt to prevent her saying anything too terribly inappropriate, and Celia. But I've never actually said it aloud to someone I might consider…well, a friend, I guess. I sort of find myself surprised that it doesn't feel like a betrayal of his confidence. Actually, it feels…cleansing. I never really bothered to think about the fact that maybe _I_ needed to process it, to let it out there, but it's freeing, in a way. So I keep going. "In the war, his city – Vukovar – was under siege. And their apartment was shelled."

"Oh my god," she whispers. "I…I can't even imagine."

I nod, sort of lamely. "I'm just not sure if he can take it. Risking…losing his family, I guess."

"But it's not…I mean…" Marla, for the first time since I met her, doesn't seem to know what to say. Of course I know what she's trying to say – that it's not the same.

"It is, though, to him. I mean, he knows I'm not going to die, but it's the same sort of prospect. He's just put…god, so much into rebuilding. Getting to this place, where I guess we both thought we were. And I get that. But I know, and I think he knows, how much he doesn't want to get hurt again. Lose what we have. And…fear of pain does crazy things to people."

She nods, and I can see the wheels working to process everything I've just revealed. After a minute or so, she glances to the wedding picture, then to me. "I hope he sticks around, Abby. I really do. You're a good person, and he damn well ought to know how much you love him."

The corners of my mouth hitch up into a little smile. "I think he does…I hope he does. I just…" The smile fades. "I don't know what the hell I'll do if he can't handle staying."

"You'll find a way to survive." She shakes her head almost imperceptibly and I can see her thinking back, to something in her own life, her own experiences. It's one of those moments where you feel phenomenally grateful that someone else has done it before you. "That's the thing about having a kid. You just…you go on. Even if everything in your life turns to shit, there's still that instinct, you know?"

I do know. I know that no matter what happens with Luka, or my job, or anything else, the biggest reason for me to stay sober is Joe. It's not something I ever thought I'd feel, but it's there, and it hurts, the magnitude of love for my son. And I think that if I could take anything back from those last few months, it wouldn't have been that night, or that martini. I wish to hell I could take that back, but not nearly as much as I ache to go back in time and slap myself across the face for even thinking of putting him in a car after I'd been drinking. I mean, Christ – I can't explain what thought process went into that except to say that there wasn't one. There couldn't have been.

"Yeah." I glance to the picture of him on the side table, the one I've looked at probably ten thousand times in the time I've been here. "I know."

* * *

Marla leaves the next morning, after a particularly tear-filled final group. Marla cries, Cynthia cries, Paul cries, Day-Glo girl and her friend cry…and I cry. Shocking, right? It's crazy to cry over someone you've known less than a month, especially when it's just that they're leaving rehab to be "released back into the wild," as Marla, herself, put it.

But it's not so much _her_ that anyone's crying after; it's the shared understanding that we're all facing these very real, very relatable demons. When she tells her stories from before and her hopes for later, we all get it. They're all variations on a theme, variations of our own transgressions and fears and desires. And we all have to hope that she stays sober, because if she can, then maybe we all can, too.

She hugs me last of everyone. "You're gonna be okay, kid."

"Thanks." I look up at her and give her a little look. "For everything, I mean."

And then she's gone. Out into the real world. We don't exchange addresses or phone numbers or emails, because we both know that it's not that sort of friendship – it's real, and I care about her, and she cares about me, but rehab is its own world. What happens here is best left here.

Kind of like Vegas, without the drinking, drugs, hookers, gambling, and fun.

And, as we're reminded by at least two counselors every time someone leaves, it can be too hard to know. You want to believe that everyone will make it, but when it comes down to it, some of them won't. So maybe I'm better off believing she'll make it and never knowing if I'm wrong.

It doesn't completely set in until that night, when I'm sitting alone in our room, quite how lonely it is here in rehab without her. The silence is strange, since whenever Marla wasn't talking, she was doing something to make noise, whether it was squirming around on her bed to find a comfortable spot or tapping her foot to music on her iPod or flipping magazine pages. It hits me that this is what it's going to be like in a few days, at home, without anyone but myself for company. Christ. I try sitting with it for awhile, to see if I can be alone like that, and it starts making me crazy within about thirty seconds. Thoughts of all the awful things I've said and done when I was drinking and could say and do again if I don't make it. I want to shake it off and tell myself with absolute certainty that I will, but it's a hell of a lot harder to do that when you're sitting alone in a silent room, faced with no certainties whatsoever about how you're life is going to go from here than it is when you're surrounded by people cheering on your recovery.

After the thirty seconds are gone, I reach for my own iPod and the PDR and tune out for sanity's sake.

* * *

When I get up to shower at seven, I see Thalia sitting at the nurse's station with a suitcase of clothes, the night nurse going through her things. She looks at me for a second and then looks down at her sneakers, and it takes me a minute or so to realize that she's ashamed of me having seen her the way I did a few nights ago, and probably guilty for having dragged me into it. Though really, let's be honest, in the scheme of things I've seen or been dragged into, this is small potatoes. And after feeling completely useless for the past month, the fact that she actually came to me was something. So I make my way over and try to manage a smile, which at this hour is no easy task. "Couldn't stay away?"

The night nurse gives me a disapproving look, while Thalia blushes. "I missed the food."

"Yeah, hospital food sucks." I nod to her feet. "New shoes?"

"My mom got them for me. She thought my old ones looked…dirty."

"Can't imagine what gave her that idea." Thalia has a habit of drawing on her sneakers, and the old ones did, indeed, look like they belong in a garbage pail. These ones have yet to be decorated. "Going to initiate these ones soon?"

She nods and smiles a little. "As soon as I'm allowed to have a pen again."

"Well, if you need someone to start you off, I have all of my writing implement privileges."

"Thanks."

An orderly opens one of the bathrooms for me and, as usual, asks if I'd like my razor and someone to supervise. I haven't accepted that offer yet, thanks largely to Marla, who smuggled in a couple of plastic disposable razors and hid them inside a vase of flowers. I know it's wrong, and god forbid they got into less responsible hands, but really, there are limits to how low I can sink. The prospect of going without shaving for a month, or the alternative – shaving while someone sits in there with their back turned – kind of requires you to rethink how much you want to stick to the rules.

"All set." I'm given my toiletries, which still do not have anything worth snorting or drinking in them, and left to my devices for all of seven minutes. Life is such a thrill, sometimes.

I let the hot water just pour down on me for a few minutes, and close my eyes. There's something wonderfully soothing about that feeling of warm water falling down on me. Tranquil. Maybe it's from when I was a kid – I used to love standing outside when it was warm and raining, and tilt my head back and just listen to the sound of rain hitting the pavement and feel it on my skin, and think of where the rainwater had come from. It was exciting to me, thinking that maybe the cloud that the rain came from had traveled all the way from Fiji, or the south of France, or maybe a lush African rainforest, and it was here on _me_, halfway around the world. It was like my own private vacation, imagining all the places that it could have come from.

Then there's also the memory of kissing in the rain, which is really a phenomenally sexy thing. Intimate. Let me just say – it's one of those things to put on your "Things to Do Before I Die" list. It was always something I envisioned as wonderful, and it really was, once the fantasy materialized – with Luka, naturally. We'd just had a nasty fight, and it was pouring, and I'd slammed my way out of his hotel room – it was the first time around for us – without having planned ahead for inclement weather, and he came after me, and apologized even though it hadn't been his fault, and kissed me, and it was just fantastically, obscenely romantic. It was a lot less romantic when we got back to the hotel, and I was freezing my ass of from being soaked in an air-conditioned hotel room, but things turned out all right once he'd run a hot shower and accompanied me to, as he put it, see that I was properly warmed.

I end up turning the water down because I'm getting dangerously close to shrieking at the injustice of wanting him and not having had him for _seven_ fucking months. Of course, the last month was really my choice, and I know that once we do get to that point, and I hope like hell we do, the first time is going to put me on par with how freaked out I was just before losing my virginity. Though I suspect it'll be less of a letdown.

When I get myself together and out of the shower, Cynthia is parked out in the hallway, half asleep and clutching her towel. I clear my throat and her head snaps up. "Finally." She scowls at me. "Someone exceeded their seven minutes."

I shrug. "Seniority. Deal with it."

"Oh, yeah, you're a real star, being in rehab longer. Congrats." She stalks into the shower and pulls the door shut. She's not even remotely close to being a morning person. _I'm_ a morning person compared to that.

* * *

The rest of the weekend is gone even faster. Sunday is mostly spent packing and making phone calls – to the garage nearby to pick up my car, to the landlord to be sure the electricity and heat are working, to Janet, who is adamant about us meeting on Monday evening, and so on. And of course, paperwork. And then it's dark, all of a sudden, and we're all gathered in the common area for movie night – my choice. The Day-Glo children and everyone else under the age of thirty look terribly confused when I decide on _The Graduate_, and even more confused when they realize that the handsome young man onscreen is Dustin Hoffman. I try not to laugh when it ends and Jenna asks if that's it.

"Um…yeah."

"There's no sequel?"

I shake my head and have to turn around to keep from laughing. Thalia just looks at her with her mouth hanging open. "Seriously?" The whole room goes quiet, because Thalia rarely talks in these group things. But see, you don't insult art in front of an artist, and this is a kid whose doodles on her shoes only because she is incapable of _not_ drawing at any given moment.

Jenna shrugs. "Yeah. I mean the end…"

"It's ambiguous. It's _supposed_ to be ambiguous."

"Okay!" Jenna turns away. "I just would've liked to know what happened after."

Thalia looks at me as if Jenna just advertised her belief that the earth revolved around Neptune and gravity was caused by a giant refrigerator magnet. "I fucking _hate_ this place."

I can't do anything except go over and give her a hug. Maybe it seems like I'm enabling, but I think this is the most assertive thing Thalia has said other than "Leave me alone" and "Go away" in her entire time here. It's nice to see the change, you know? It's a small thing, but it's there, and it's a long way from a week ago.

And me – I suppose if I stand back and try to look at it all objectively, I'd probably give myself kudos for the changes over the last month. I know in my mind what I've done here is huge, really huge. Talking about things I've never said or wanted to say or even let myself think about before, facing some unbelievably scary shit, a mess of introspective soul-searching. Taking ownership of the things that are my fault, the things that really aren't, and the things I can't change no matter how much I try. Confessing what I want and what I need. Trusting.

And I can feel it, inside, too. The difference. Like a part of me has begun to move on from the past and push forward, and not stop in my tracks when the fear is overwhelming. I feel lighter, in a sense. Cleansed.

Sober. _Sobered_. Ready to make the proverbial jump and land on my feet.

Different, or maybe not. Maybe just…myself. The one under all the layers and self-sabotage and chips on my shoulders and disappointment and self-fulfilling prophecy. No longer paralyzed and languishing in limbo.

Alive.


	15. To Heal

**A/N: **Has it really been four months? God, I'm...just terribly sorry. And even sorrier to say that this is the last chapter. I've loved writing this but honestly don't have the energy to extend this into the Part II I'd intended. This seemed like a natural end, anyhow. I do apologize for not going further, but maybe at some point I'll get the creative ambition to take it up again, as sort of a sequel I guess. Admittedly, this was how I'd always intended to end things. Well, except that at the eleventh hour, I decided to add the section at the very end because, as much as this is all about Abby, it's ultimately a love story.

Thousands upon thousands of thanks to everyone who reviewed this; to my initial beta, Mrs. Eyre, and to my on-again-off-again beta, Essy, who deserves an enormous golden plaque or trophy or compass or something to commemorate such incredible dedication and tolerance; to the givers of advice on this piece; to all the wonderful musicians who inspired these chapters; and to the creators, writers, and actors of "ER" who inspired this whole thing. Except whoever thought pairing Sam and Gates was a smooth idea, that was utter torture to behold.

Oh, er...there's an epilogue already written, but I'm going to be a giant brat and hold it hostage until I get ten reviews on this (although my resolve may well waver, I'm really pretty fickle).

* * *

**"To Heal (and Restore Broken Bodies)"**

_To heal and to restore broken bodies. I cannot hope to explain to you; I can promise you no miracle cures. You see my boy, whatever goes up must come down. As for me, I will say this...to heal and to restore broken bodies._

_- Underworld_

It's amazing how used to sleep deprivation a person can become. Med school, nursing shortages, more med school, residency, relationships, a baby – somewhere around my third or fourth year of med school my body just sort of adjusted to not sleeping for days at a time. And circadian rhythm? Right. Night and day are pretty much just different shades of grey at this point.

Since being here, I've barely managed to sleep past six on any given morning. Even on days off, I'd gotten used to getting up when Joe did. We had this routine – sometime between quarter of six and six thirty, he'd wake up and for a few minutes content himself with his stuffed animals, like he was prepping them for the day, and then he'd get antsy and I'd start hearing these little noises from the baby monitor. Not crying or anything, just his announcement to me that he was up and wanted out of the crib. And I'd go get him – sometimes within a minute or so, sometimes not, if I was really exhausted, in which case the noises would get louder and more demanding and he'd start taking on this tone just like Luka when we're arguing and he's at his limit – and then we'd head back into the bedroom and get under the covers and he'd be out cold again within thirty seconds. It was one of the things that kept me from going completely off the deep end after Luka was gone, those morning cuddles with Joe, him drooling just a little on my arm and smelling that baby smell and feeling so inextricably linked to this little being, this person I made with Luka, the best thing I've ever done in my life. Except it hurt, because it was like we were just the two of us, and the thing that was missing was the other half of the equation. Luka.

Now most mornings I wake up when Joe would and imagine him doing the same with Luka and wonder if it feels like something is missing to them, too, and if we'll actually have a complete picture at some point, all three of us together. And then, of course, I start getting weepy and either need a cigarette or a shower before I lose it altogether.

So naturally it's a bit of a surprise when I wake up to the sound of the night nurse doing the morning wake-up rounds at seven-thirty. I don't think I've actually slept in more than once since I got here. She pops her head in the door – same nurse who checked me in on my first night – and gives me a smile. "Last morning, Abby. Better get up and get ready."

Ready. Ha.

* * *

I head into Celia's office for a final session after breakfast. That's another thing I'm looking forward to – actual food. I mean, I can't cook much more than macaroni and cheese, but tiny, presealed boxes of cereal and instant eggs can make a frozen waffle with actual, came-from-a-tree-in-Vermont maple syrup look like a five-star meal.

She gives me a big smile as I settle myself on the sofa. "The end is near."

"My delivery guy will be thrilled. I don't know how he's been makings ends meet this past month."

She laughs. "Everyone looks forward to the first meal back. I've had people call ahead to make sure the food gets there when they do."

"I'm not sure I want to sink to that level." Although, come to think of it, a hot order of pad Thai welcoming me back is kind of appealing.

"So." She clears her throat. "I'm not going to ask if you're ready, but I would like to know how you're feeling about leaving."

"I'm not…I'm not really sure how I feel." I twist a strand of hair around my finger and suddenly have this image of Dubenko telling me I play with my hair when I'm nervous, and not to let the guys push me around. "Nervous, I guess. It'll be strange, going home to an empty apartment. I haven't slept in an empty apartment in a few years." Even when I was pregnant and Luka was on a night shift, it didn't feel as though I was alone. Maybe in the beginning, it did, but once Joe started moving around, once it seemed really…_real_…it was like I had company. As ludicrous as I always thought it was, and even felt while I was doing it, I'd talk to Joe. Not baby talk, just conversation. About Luka, or theorizing about what he'd be like, sometimes even about work.

I think for a second that maybe I should get a fish or something for the interim between leaving here and going to Croatia, but I suppose talking to a fish wouldn't do much for my clean, sober, and sane image. And it would probably not do so well on its own once I do leave.

Celia clears her throat and I snap back to the present. "I guess it's not so much a fear of drinking that bothers me. It's more getting to that place where I'm desperate enough to do it."

"Do you think you're in danger of getting back there?"

"Yes." It's the honest truth; right now I know there's more ahead of me than behind me in terms of obstacles. Getting sober wasn't exactly a breeze, but it was me, my terms, my decisions. Sorting things out with Luka is a whole different level of complicated, given that no matter what I do, the outcome depends on him. I know, for my part, that there's nothing that's going to change what I want, ultimately – to be with him – but this whole thing hinges on whether he can get past what I've done, how much I've hurt him. Will hurt him, inevitably. "I think there's a good chance I will. I also think the difference is that I want to stay sober."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning instead of drinking, I think I'll be able to ask for help. Find some way of stopping myself from going back to it."

Celia smiles, the sort of smile Luka will get when he's just obscenely pleased with himself. "That's the best possible outcome we can hope for when someone leaves here. We don't expect anyone to suddenly become strong enough to resist the urge altogether. We just want to get you to that point where you're strong enough to reach out to someone for help."

I think of Janet and how she sort of brushed me off when I tried to act like having a drink was just some casual thing, basically reporting it to her and wanting her to pat me on the head and tell me it was all right. And how I did the same thing to Carter when he told me he'd had a slip of his own, but it was okay because he'd thrown it up, so no harm done. It was an admission, both times, like that in itself would fix it. Sort of like a Catholic confession, just hoping a couple of Hail Marys would remedy it. Not willing to take responsibility for the action itself.

We go on about reaching out and asking for help and don't forget to go to meetings, not just go, but share, and reach out, and all that, until Celia changes the subject because we've gone off on a tangent about why the coffee is always such shit at AA meetings and how that's really sort of counterproductive to sabotage the one shred of sanity that addicts have left.

"In the vein of honesty and sharing, what have you thought about in terms of telling Luka?"

I start twisting my hair around a finger, again, and try to fix my gaze on the toe of one of Celia's fabulous suede boots. "It's sort of like picking the lesser of evils."

"How so?"

"Trying to decide if it's better to withhold at least some of the truth so I don't hurt him even more, versus coming clean because it's a part of the program." I have a ridiculous urge to start chewing on my hair like I would in junior high. "Do you have gum? I'm just…I'm having kind of a nicotine moment."

Celia nods and points to a glass dish on the side table. "Just restocked."

"Thank god for small favors." I decide on sanity over decorum and talk and chew at once. "Anyway – it's hard to justify why telling him the whole ugly truth is beneficial to him."

"In the short term, it might not be." Celia reaches out for the gum wrapper to throw it away and it dawns on me that I have no idea if she has kids or not. Mom behavior tends to be a learned process, right? Then again, being constantly surrounded by addicts in various stages of withdrawal is probably a lot like having a dozen toddlers at once. "I think the deeper question is whether it will hurt you to keep it from him."

"Not enough to start drinking. I mean – can't forgoing brutal honesty be the right decision when it only stands to cause more harm?"

"That's not what I mean. I'm asking if you think that _you_ can get past withholding that information. It seems to me that, from what I know of your relationship with Luka, lying by omission has never been beneficial in the long run. I'm concerned that even if it saves him some grief in the short-term, it could become a divisive issue, whereby you continue to feel guilty, or even resentful, about keeping a secret and it ends up pushing you further apart."

Well, shit. Way to pull out the big guns for the final game, right? I gnaw my gum in silence for a few moments and then finally work up the nerve to look her in the eye. "And what if hurting him in the short-term means we never get to the long-term?"

"I think that's something you have to answer for yourself."

The thing of it is, so much of our relationship has been this meticulously coordinated dance of trying to say what was needed but not hurt one another by saying too much. Or ourselves. It's like touching a stove to see if it's still hot – you have to make contact long enough to register the temperature, but if you leave it there too long and it turns out to be hot, you end up with a nasty, festering blister. Real romantic stuff, right? But even that's an improvement over what we had before, which was trying to convince ourselves that we didn't actually need to talk in the first place.

I think maybe both of us need to work long and hard on the whole communication issue, because while I absolutely do enjoy the fact that we can communicate nonverbally quite well, I do get that it's not a replacement for the verbal stuff. And the other thing – the trust issue – kind of relies on that back-and-forth dialogue, and sharing our fears and so on. I know that, for my part, I'm going to suck at it at first, and there are volumes and libraries of things that I would prefer to not have to say to Luka, or anyone, but at least as far as Luka goes, I'm willing to give it a shot.

And of course, he's once again the wildcard in that respect, but maybe if we can get through this next hurdle, it'll seem worth it. Worth peeling back layers and opening wounds and exposing ourselves to one another because, at least as far as I'm concerned, it's less painful than the alternative – not talking at all. Because clearly, that doesn't work so well.

"I know." I close my eyes and lean my head back against the wall. "And I think…I _know_ that telling him is probably the right thing. I just…" I sigh. "I don't want to lose him."

"I know you don't, Abby. But sometimes, the hard road is the one that leads where you want to be. And for your sake, I truly hope that Luka sees that. He might not, at first, and you're right that it might push him away, but I think that once you've said what you need to say and if you are honest about some of the things you've talked about here, with time, he'll come to understand that your intentions were noble."

"Noble?" I raise an eyebrow.

"You've said over and over that a large part of coming here was the motivation to make things work with him. Even if it's come out of a place of turmoil, it's certainly a noble intention."

"I just have this image of…" Of Luka in shining armor with me, waving a handkerchief at him while "Greensleeves" plays. "Camelot, I guess."

"You mean King Arthur, or Jack Kennedy?"

I grin despite myself and then it falters when I think of the heaps of infidelity associated with the latter. Although, you know, there's no real documentation to say that Arthur was monogamous. Probably not, given the day and age. "I don't know. I guess…both of them were rather noble and dashing in their own respect."

"If only fairy tales were reality."

"Somebody compared me once to Goldilocks." Celia raises an eyebrow. "Not like that. He said…he said I was always looking for something that was 'just right' and ended up missing everything else."

"I take it he was talking about a relationship."

"Or the demise thereof, but yeah."

"Do you think he had a point?"

"I think…I think maybe he was, to some degree. I'd like to think I wasn't as much of a brat as she was, but I guess in some ways I was. But the thing is, he _wasn't_ the right thing, and even if I'd tried to make him…fit, or whatever, he wouldn't have."

"Do you believe that there's only one right person for everyone?"

"Not necessarily." For my own sake, and Luka's, I hope there's at least two. "But for me, yes, I do think that Luka is the one person out there that's right for me. I can't see myself being with anyone else. I can't…see myself dredging through this sort of shit, wanting to get better for anyone else." I catch her eye. "Wanting my_self_ to be better for – with – anyone else."

"In some cases, I think it's only fair to suggest to a patient that perhaps there's a point at which they have to let go."

"Some cases?"

"Yes." Celia looks me in the eye, and I can see a little quirk of a smile in her expression. "I think that, for you, even if I thought that, it would be pointless to tell you. I don't see you giving up on him at any point in the foreseeable future."

"Neither do I."

* * *

Tradition has it that a group is held on someone's last day, in which they tell their story, as it were. How they got to where they did, how they made the decision to get help, where they think they are in the process at the moment. We all gather in the group therapy room and I feel awkward about the whole thing, but it's not too awful because I've heard the rest do it – Lee, Marla, and so on – and as much as I don't want to say a lot of things, I've heard worse and there's a sense of nonjudgement among the group. Really, who are we to judge one another when we've all fucked up in immeasurable ways?

So I talk. About most of it – there are some things that no matter how safe an environment I'm in still are too painful to talk about, and a few things, like Luka's personal tragedies and even how they affect me that are really nobody's business – but I talk about Maggie and about Eddie and how much of a mess my childhood was, and I've started trying, at Celia's urging, to let myself acknowledge that I was somewhat of a victim in that situation, and it wasn't my fault. And conversely, what was my fault in the lead-up to my alcoholism. I talk about how it started – that I didn't really drink more than your average kid in high school, but come college, it was an awful lot of fun, until it became more than fun because I figured out that it could make the peripheral things fade away for awhile, and then learning how to get by more and more with a few drinks in me for long periods and never let on. How by the time I was in a serious relationship with Richard, I was numb more and more of the time, but there would be whole weeks when I could put the drinking aside because I really was smitten, partially with Richard, and partially with the safety of having an out from Maggie. I'd already moved in with him when I graduated, and there was a routine in place, and we were still in the honeymoon phase of being friends and lovers at once and by the time we were having trouble, I was so stupefied that it didn't matter nearly as much as getting my next drink.

I talk about the abortion. The fear of what my child would be like, how it would turn out. Richard and I were already on a downhill path, alternating between periods of fighting and of avoiding each other entirely, and then there were his control issues and how I felt like I was suffocating under his thumb and drinking was the only way to breathe. How I took my frustrations out on myself rather than confront him about it, but at the same time seething, underneath, hating him but not having any wherewithal to fight back. And I knew that it was better to go along than to try making my own path, because I was so invested in resenting him and resenting myself even more. I talk about the incident with his friend, and the realization that I'd hit a place so low that I couldn't go any further. And there was so much guilt on my part that I really did try – I threw myself into getting sober and for about six months I tried like hell to fix things with Richard. And then how I caught him cheating and after that, he started to try too, also out of guilt, and it worked for awhile until it didn't and we'd already started to grow apart too much and the resentment for one another was eating us both alive, and no matter how hard we tried, neither of us could pretend that we liked each other. So he went back to cheating and I went back to not talking.

I talk about the day I realized I wanted a divorce. I knew he was cheating and I didn't even care that much but then _she_ called our house and it was too overwhelming, not his infidelity, but how little he respected me that when I confronted him, he shrugged it off. He said I was paranoid, and I said he was an asshole and I wanted a divorce. He slept at her place from then on and I didn't even battle him over the apartment or the money or the dog – although it was so unbearably ugly and hated me and I hated it, so no real loss – and it was just over.

I talk about meeting Luka. How the first time I saw him, it wasn't love at first sight, but it was damn sure lust like no other. How I hadn't felt that desire for another person in so long, and the last guy had been the Irish-Catholic Sting lookalike and he hadn't been interested. And the chaos of our first relationship, and the end of it and how I called him that night and Nicole picked up and it was like Richard's whore on the other line all over again. And then the world's worst birthday and the world's best beer and Brian, and how I buried all the feelings that came out of that situation including the realization while I was sleeping on Luka's couch that I still wanted him. And then Carter, and Maggie, and Eric's visit and the hours of thinking he was dead. The guilt I felt for not being able to save him and the hurt when he didn't want me to. My beautiful baby brother who had been the only thing I'd ever loved unconditionally, and he chose her over me.

I talk about getting sober again and how it was too easy, but it worked, so that was that. I talk about going back to med school and how for the first time I started to feel like I was really me, and I could stand on my own two feet, and maybe I'd make it after all.

And then I talk about that night. Opening up to someone for the first time and how once I'd started to talk, it just started pouring out and I was crying in front of another person and it was Luka, and then – and then. Then the kiss. And then not long after, the baby. And how I was still so afraid but I knew, really knew, that there would never be a moment where I wouldn't resent myself if I got rid of it, because I wanted it so completely. With Luka, who I knew to some degree I loved, even in those first moments of our second take, because I'd never wanted anyone to the point that it hurt.

I talk about the elation of those first months and then the NICU and how every bar I passed or bottle I saw made me physically ache for the oblivion and just a few moments of forgetting that my child, my son, was dying because of me. Because I'd been at work, opened my mouth, fallen the wrong way, ignored the ache in my side, not said a word about being dizzy, resisted the magnesium – because I hadn't been able to keep my baby safe and he was dying and there was nothing I could do. And how, at the same time, I knew that giving up wasn't an option and the first drink would be the ultimate abandonment.

I talk about that first year, Ames, and watching the change in Luka and being shut out and being absolutely terrified that we were going right back to that place we were after the mugger. I talk about the fear, how it was completely paralyzing, when he went with Ames and then they were up on the roof and there was this noise, this shot, and I felt like it was me, like I'd been shot, because all the blood was leaving me and I was dying, myself, because I was going to lose him. And the realization that if I lost him, my biggest fear wasn't how I'd cope with it or how I'd raise Joe, but that Luka might not have known how completely, utterly, absolutely in love with him I was. And whether there was a ring or a white dress or Stevie Wonder songs or not, he was my husband.

And then I talk about everything from the moment he got that fucking call. Married for five days and gone for six months. How alone I felt and how I tried, really tried, to be supportive but there was so much hurt and anger because he'd promised me that we'd do it together, be a family, but the weeks kept going by and he wasn't coming home and it seemed like maybe he never would. Like he'd found his home and it wasn't with us. And then Joe got hurt and I couldn't reach Luka and suddenly it was real, the reality that I was a single parent, and I didn't think I could do it on my own, and the bottle of wine was there and it just kept saying to me, you aren't alone, not if you've got your old friend, and suddenly it was blurry and I could forget and soon enough I was able to forget everything, including the person I'd been trying to become for years. A mother, a wife, a doctor – it was Abby the Alcoholic again and she was safe, if nothing else.

I talk about the night I was sitting at the bar, feeling so alone, and then there was someone to talk to, and I could see what he wanted, and I just needed to be wanted and needed to be drunk and everything after that was a blur and I still don't know how or why I went upstairs with him or why I kissed him back or why I let him undress me or why I laid in his bed or why I let him lie on top of me or why I put my arms around him or why the fuck I didn't stop at any point and tell him to leave me the fuck alone because he was not my husband, not the man I loved beyond all reason or temptation. But I have a suspicion that it was because I needed something, anything, and the martini was there and so was he. And another martini and another.

I talk about Luka coming home, and bringing his brother, and why in the world he thought that after six months, company would be a good idea. I talk about feeling dirty and every time he touched me it was a flood of guilt, like my whole body was an open, oozing wound, and him asking if I loved him anymore, and the realization that I did, so much so that I needed _him_ more than I needed a drink, and I needed my son and needed my son to be able to have me there and sober when he needed me. I talk about looking at myself like I was outside my body and seeing Maggie, and seeing the prospect of Luka walking away just like Eddie did when it got too much and hating myself in that moment and knowing that if I didn't do something, right then, I'd be no better than her. I hated her for not taking the stupid pill, being too selfish to make that little step, and how could I not put down the bottle, unless it was that I was selfish, too. And knowing I was. Knowing, as well, that I needed help and that it wasn't fair to Luka to put that on him.

They all listen while I talk, and Cynthia reaches out and grabs my hand from where she's sitting next to me at one point and squeezes it hard. I cry a little bit and so do a few other people, and when it's all over, and I'm hoarse from talking so much, Dianne smiles and asks me the same question as she did the first day. "So – can you introduce yourself to the group one last time?"

I nod, and I've been thinking about how to do that for a while, because I knew from past groups like this that I'd have to. I take a breath and clear my throat. "I'm Abby. I'm a recovering alcoholic, a doctor, a mother, and I'm married to an amazing man who I hope to hell still loves me when this is all over."

"And?" Dianne raises an eyebrow.

"Oh." I smile. "And I've been sober thirty days."

She stands up and holds out a hand. "Congratulations, Abby. On behalf of everyone here, you've earned this."

I take the chip she's holding out to me and turn it over in my hand a few times and smile. It seems like a small step, but at the same time, I know it's a launching point toward the one I'll get in eleven more months, and that every day and week closer I get to that one is going to be easier than the one before it.

* * *

I get my things together and my car is parked out front and all the papers are signed and ready. Celia and Jenna and Paul and Cynthia all hug me and so do a lot of other people who I wasn't really close with, but hugging is sort of a thing here, and I'm almost getting used to it. Almost. Thalia hangs back a little and twirls her Sharpie, which has been returned to her for good behavior, but when I start putting on my coat she moves forward and manages a little smile. "Here." She holds out a rolled-up piece of drawing paper to me. "I…wanted to say 'thanks' for…you know…stuff."

I smile back and put a hand on her shoulder and she doesn't flinch for a change. I'm not dumb enough to try for a hug. "Try to be good to yourself. I know it's not easy, but…it'll be worth it in the long-run."

She nods and bites her lip and I unroll the paper and there's Joe, staring back at me in charcoal and pen. "It's amazing," I whisper. And it is, really. Phenomenal, actually. "Thank you."

She just shrugs a little, and I swear she actually has to work at not smiling a second time.

It dawns on me, just then, that I'll miss her. All of them, really. That this hasn't been a hiatus from life or an extended pause, but an actual experience with memories and people and inside jokes, and that it's something I won't be able to share with anyone back home. Not because I'm ashamed of having gone to rehab, but because I don't know that anyone who hasn't gone through it can begin to grasp the concept of it. We send people off to rehab like it's a void or something, where you put them in and wait awhile and then they come out, either better or not. Like the experience itself is null and void once the outcome is determined.

It's not a forgettable thing, though, and I'm only now getting that. Not that I think I could have gotten it before, because it's not something I think I'd be able to relate to another person if I tried. And even if I could give the basic gist of it, it wouldn't convey any real substance. It's one of those things you can't describe with any justice to another person.

One of the orderlies helps me get my things into the car and I put the drawing from Thalia and the vase of roses from Luka and a book from Celia in the front seat next to my purse and get in, and it's sort of uncomfortable to be in the drivers seat – literally and figuratively, I guess – but I start up the engine and give a little wave out the window and a minute later it's gone in the distance.

And I'm alone, going home. With nothing to distract me from what's to come, except maybe the memories of what's already been.

* * *

"_Wise men say…"_

"_Oh, Luka, don't."_

"…_only fools rush in…"_

"_Luka…" I reach a hand over to cover his mouth and he uses it as leverage to pull me on top of him. He's grinning. Of course._

"…_but I can't help…"_

_His American Idol moment ends very abruptly thanks in large part to me, since he's yet to figure out how to sing and kiss me at the same time. His fingers trail up the sides of my face and into my hair and I feel him laugh a little. _

"_What?" I lift my head._

"_The pearls." He chuckles and begins to untangle them from my hair. "I didn't know how…durable…that hairstyle was."_

"_They're still in?"_

"_They were, at least. Here." He hands them to me._

"_Why take them out now?"_

"_Well…I don't want to actually _try_ to ruin them."_

"_Oh." I reach over to put them on the nightstand. "So then, you're implying…?"_

"_Oh, yes. I'm implying."_

"_I see."_

_He rolls us both over so I'm pinned underneath and smiles that secretive, sexy smile of his and I can't help but smile too as he finishes. "…falling in love with you."_


	16. Epilogue Better Days

**A/N:** I'm not going to make a big deal of posting the info on the songs I wrote along to, or, god forbid, the lyrics, but if you want to know, shoot me a message. Again - lots and lots of thanks to everyone who stuck with this piece.

* * *

**"Better Days"**

"Come on…we need to get you home."

"Nooo…we need to get me another drink."

"I don't think so."

"Just one more. Something…fruity. I want something fruity."

"Look, I know it seems like, right now, getting really drunk is going to make it go away, but it's not. Trust me."

"I just…I want it to maybe leave me alone awhile."

"Well, it's not going to, not like this. And neither am I."

"S'okay. You can stay. Want a drink?"

"No, and neither do you. Not really. Look at me. What you really want – it's not a drink, is it?"

"Yes…no. I don't know. Maybe."

"Well, if you're not sure, it's probably not."

"I want…I want it to be fixed. Why can't it be fixed?"

"I don't know. Sometimes it can't be fixed. Sometimes it can. But I can promise you that drinking is not going to help."

"I want a Piña Colada. Can we get me one? With a little umbrella?"

"How about instead, we get you home and into bed, and, in the morning, to a meeting."

There's a long sigh that follows. "I was doing so well."

"I know. I know you were. And you can get back on track."

"How come it's so easy for you?"

I manage a little smile. "It wasn't. Especially in the beginning."

"I don't think I can do it, Abby."

"You can." I brush her mussed bangs off her forehead. I see an awful lot of myself in Caroline. Except that she's already gotten this far, admitting she has a problem, finding a sponsor, even one that was supposed to be temporary, and I think that it puts her a couple steps ahead of where I was at her age. I was just starting down the hill, and here she is, a kid fresh out of college, climbing up. "Tell you what. I'm going to take you home, get you into bed, and when you wake up tomorrow, give me a call and we'll go to a meeting together. And then I'll take you for coffee."

"Can we maybe…pretend this didn't happen? I don't want to have to start over."

"I know, and I know it sucks. But we all have to do it. It's got to be the real thing."

She allows me to peel her off the bar, and leans heavily on me as I pull some money from my purse and lay it on the counter. "You don't have to –"

"Don't worry about it."

"Okay." Her head is on my shoulder as I lead her out of the bar, and I feel for a moment more like her mother than her sponsor, but then, I'm sure Janet felt that way about me quite a few times, and god knows I felt like she was, too, sometimes. Then again, one of the drawbacks to being a sponsor is the inability to ground your sponsee.

She leans against me, half asleep, as I drive her to her apartment. I manage to get her up the stairs and inside and into bed and, once I have some semblance of assurance from her roommate that she'll be taken care of, I head home, knowing full well that Luka is waiting impatiently for me.

Because tonight, we have something to celebrate.

* * *

"You're late." He's doing a lousy job of looking angry, and I can see it in his eyes that he's ready to jump out of his skin with whatever has has up his sleeve.

"Sponsor duties." I drop my bag and coat very carelessly in the hallway and wrap my arms around his neck. "But I'm here, now."

"Yes, you are." The corners of his mouth are twitching and there's that mischievous look in his eyes. He thinks I thought he forgot, but I know damn well he's as happy as I am about today.

I play along, though. "Joe asleep?"

"Mmhmm." His hands are on my waist, thumbs in my belt loops, and it's real clear that he's not only pleased with whatever he's done, but planning to get lucky afterward. Which, of course, he will.

"Well…I'm starved. I think –" And right there, he cuts me off with one of those kisses that literally make my knees give out. It's a good thing he's tall, because I need the leverage just to stay standing and concentrate on pretending like I don't know what's going on, because I'd be fine with skipping the formalities and going straight to the afterparty. Clearly, he wouldn't mind, either, given that he's managed to undo my hair and has his fingers tangled in it when he lets me go, and I'm not exactly working hard to fake a degree of shock and awe. "Wow. Um…okay. Did you get a raise or something?"

I ignore the fact that he already has one, but it's of a completely different nature.

"You thought I forgot," he singsongs, and sort of sways his hips and mine together like we're dancing.

I give him my best look of innocence. "Forgot what?"

He grins, that lopsided grin that has the power to melt my clothes off, and whispers in my ear. "Congratulations, Abby."

It's absolutely impossible not to smile back at him, so I don't bother resisting, and kiss him good and long while I'm half-dragged, half-carried to the kitchen. "Thank you."

"Mmhmm." He's got me facing him, my back to the kitchen, and I'd bet good money that there's something on the table that I'm not supposed to see just yet, and sure enough, he lowers his voice to a murmur and spins me around, hands over my eyes. "I know you're supposed to get a chip, but…"

I'm suddenly taken back to the night of Joe's first birthday and eating cupcakes via webcam and how badly I wanted him that night, and it's overwhelming, the feeling of absolute gratitude and desire for my husband when I see another one of those cupcakes sitting on the table, tapers lit on either side, and this time, knowing I can have him. I can feel the burn of emotion in my throat and behind my eyes and I can't decide whether to laugh, cry, or take him right there on the kitchen floor.

Lucky for me, I don't have to make the decision, because he guides me to the table and pulls me onto his lap, and the absolute safety of being in his arms and the low rumble of his voice when he kisses my throat and tells me he loves me and that he hopes I know how proud he is renders me totally incapable of doing anything but kissing him.

I lived without him for nearly a year, between him being away, then me being away, and him moving out, and one thing I know for damn sure is that I don't want to try it again. I don't entirely understand what it was that got to him, but all of a sudden, he was there, at work, wanting to talk, and ten minutes later his tongue was in my mouth and I had a whole new philosophy on rowboats.

I think it would have been a different ballgame if that day had turned out different, but, of course, it didn't, and instead of celebrating our anniversary and being together again, I was calling him from County to tell him that his best man was dead and, god, I tried to hold it together for him, but in the end, he was the one holding me in the lounge and I was crying into his shirt, and I think that as much as we lost that day, we gained something, too.

We celebrated our anniversary three days late. He gave me the real estate section of _The B__oston Globe_.

The cupcake is abandoned and the candles blown out and he carries me upstairs and lays me on the bed and I look up at him as he's undressing me and know with absolute certainty that I will never be more or less in love with him than I am at this moment. I never thought that this would be my life – a child for whom I would readily cut out my own heart and a husband who has full rights of ownership to it – but it is, and as it happens, it's everything it's cracked up to be and more.

It takes a certain kind of person to make it through what Luka has – not just with me, but all of it – and a rare breed of them who come out the other side still willing to keep fighting. It's not just that I couldn't have done it without Luka; it's that I wouldn't have. I wouldn't have gone to rehab and opened up the wounds I'd spent my whole life hiding from if I didn't have that prospect of losing him and losing Joe. I've spoken a few times in meetings about it – the idea that, for me, it did have to do with faith, but not in a higher power. It was about having faith in Luka – in his willingness to go through hell and high water, in his love for me, in his acceptance of my faults. And having faith in Joe, that he would love me even if I weren't perfect, that he would be okay even if I made a few mistakes here and there. And even moreso, having faith in myself, that I could actually be happy and that I was capable of making it last. And I think that now, I can see that I can, because if we can get through this past year, and the one before that, and the one before that – which, when it comes down to it, were the hardest and most wonderful years of my life – we can make it through all the ones in front of us.

Luka and I make love that night and well into the morning, and it's a good thing it's a Saturday and neither of us are on call, because we've slept maybe forty minutes by the time Joe wakes up, and Luka pulls on a pair of boxers while I stare at his ass and manage to unwillingly clothe myself, and then he goes and gets Joe, who snuggles into me the moment his feet hit the mattress, and then Luka gets in next to us, and it's warm and wonderful and I have the two things I love most in the world asleep on my chest and I know – really know – that this is everything I'll ever need. Not vodka, not sex, not a medical degree, not even a house in the suburbs with a swing set and a really enormous bathtub, though that doesn't hurt. I need Luka and Joe, and beyond that, it doesn't matter, because this, being loved and loving them back?

Nothing in the world could be better than that.


End file.
